


How We Unfold

by NicoleJanine



Category: Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crime, Drama, F/M, Fanfiction, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Mystery, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:26:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2068131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoleJanine/pseuds/NicoleJanine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock isn't dead. He's alive and well, and always watching over John. Waiting for the right time to come back to his blogger and friend. But he can't until the last of the three snipers is taken care of, and he knows John is safe. But even as Sherlock gets closer to making John truly safe, a new evil lurks in the dark. And John and Sherlock have caught it's eye. As Sherlock struggles to return to his friend and John struggles to move on after Sherlock's supposed death, this new dark power grows more interested in the pair. Now the duo will be put to the test, facing a new nemesis, as well as each other.</p><p>Worlds collide as the intimate lives of the BBC characters intertwine and each must face their own darkness. This is how their hearts unfold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I actually post this story on Wattpad (Via NicoleJanine) and if you like it, I encourage you to go to wattpad and vote for the story there! I would like to enter it into the Watty Awards for fanfiction, if people like it.
> 
> In any case, I'm new to A03 and will always post to Wattpad first (where all my other work (personal and fanfiction) is). So check that shizzle out. if you want to, you know, no pressure.
> 
> Also, this "first chapter" is so short because it's actually meant to be the prologue, but it looks like that's not an option on here. So, yeah.
> 
> Happy reading, Lovelies!
> 
> (P.S.: I'm American, so if you notice any cultural errors, please comment and let me know.)

**Sherlock**

 

Silence resonates through the vacant flat, swallowing me. There is emptiness here. John's cologne lingers on his robe, which rests carelessly on the arm of the chair. My fingers hover in the air inches above the fabric, but I do not touch it. I move on, slowly, taking everything in. These moments are rare. I ignore my reflection in the mirror above the mantle, my eyes instead fall upon the numerous newsletter articles littering its edges.

The older articles hanging at the top retell a story a year and half old. Events of which John has memorized every detail. Each article tells a different version of the same story, the monster that keeps him up at night. Images of St. Bartholomew's Hospital haunt the small clippings. His scratchy handwriting infects the articles in different areas, thoughts he jots down when reading through them. One note, which is scribbled in the margin of one of the clippings, has been retraced a few times. I imagine he takes the clipping down and rereads it late at night, when his mind haunts him. I imagine him sitting at the study with the small lamp on next to him for hours, a pen poised carelessly between his trained fingers while he traces over the note again. Carved deeply into the paper is the simple phrase "He was real."

My eyes fall to the newer articles clinging to the bottom of the mirror frame. They regard murders; cases John has worked on with Scotland Yard, no doubt. Judging by their condition they receive less attention than the worn clippings above. These remain crisp and unmolested. I pull myself away from the fireplace and walk slowly toward the kitchen. Many of my possessions have been moved- given away, or perhaps simply tucked away into some dark recess of space; storage that John never visits. Everything else has been kept much the same, furniture and other less intimate items remain as they were. But my equipment, that is what's missing. What he couldn't look at any longer.

I walk to the fridge and open it. He's cleaned it, the white interior shines too brightly. I assume he cleaned it once it was gutted of all my experiments, maybe to lessen the reminder; an effort to scrub away my essence. The living room was cleaned as well, but nothing moved. A milk carton- old- stands alone on the shelf, some lunch meat rests in its package on the shelf beneath. And one bottle of rum rests innocently in the door. I sigh and let the door pull itself closed. After inspecting the kitchen I walk to my room. My old room. He has taken to sleeping in here now, the room is manipulated to suit his tastes ever so slightly; a chair rests in the corner by the window. He often sits there, the cushion is slightly imprinted. But the chair does not face the window, it faces the bed. The bed I once slept in. This room is his now, a logical and practical decision. It is far more convenient than the other one.

The room is kept naked. The bed made meticulously. The night stands are bare, the floor vacant. The soldier after the war. An echo of desolation bleeds through the walls and bloats the air, thickening it around me. I close my eyes. Standing here, in this room once inhabited by a man falsely believed dead and now by a man falsely believed alive, I feel everything. The cold air pricks my skin, the quiet crawls through my clothes. I open my eyes.

I have no more time.

I move swiftly out of the bedroom and toward the door. These moments never last long and I must leave. It is dusk and John will return soon. But I cannot see him, I must be gone. And leave no trace of my presence. Just like each time before.

I time these visits perfectly and come and go unnoticed. But the difficulty of these visits, a sentiment which remains inexplicable to me, has not lessened with time. And each visit reiterates the same profound realization.

There is emptiness here.


	2. My Friend

  
  
  
**_John_ **

 

The rain beats on the glass pane, casting a flickering bluish light onto the dark carpet at my feet. I focus on the streams of water painting the glass and nervously tap my fingers on the armrest.

"John?"

I regret coming.

"John?"

This was a mistake.

"John!"

I look at my therapist, "I'm sorry?" I say instinctively.

"Where were you just then?" Her kind brown eyes inspect me, her dark skin accents the low light in the room.

I can't stop myself from looking toward the window. It was also raining that day. So long ago. I look back at her quickly, hoping nothing shows on my face.

"Nowhere, I'm-" I take a breath, "I'm here."

"You've missed several appointments, John." Her expression remains open and gentle, "Why did you stop coming?"

Silence. She writes a note on her paper. This time with it tilted toward her so that I won't read it.

"What made you decide to come back today?"

The rain is pounding in my ear. It is too loud. It drowns out her voice.

I clear my throat, "I thought I'd-" I pause, not really sure what I'm trying to say, "- thought this might help."

She nods approvingly, "Is this about Sherlock?"

"Not just..." I couldn't bring myself to say his name. It felt wrong, "him. Things feel worse than- um," I clear my throat again.

"Before?" She pressures.

I tilt my head only slightly, a habitual manner of saying yes without having to say yes.

"You were very lonely when you came back from the war. Very lost." She recalls, "Sherlock filled that void for you. That's why you stopped coming before, isn't it? He took away your need to."

I shift in my seat. I listen to the rain beating the glass. It's trying to break through, shatter the glass into infinite fragments.

"How is work, John?" She tries a new approach.

I shrug, trying to be casual. But it comes off a little too rushed, a little too stiff, "It's alright. I've been-" I swallow, "-working with Lestrade a bit."

"How does it feel? Working on cases without Sherlock?"

"At first I couldn't. Sometimes it's all I can think to do...medicine isn't the same."

"Does this make you feel closer to him?"

Silence.

She tries again, "It's been almost two years, John. This is all part of the healing process. Learning to live without the people we've lost."

"He was my friend." The sound of my voice carries too much honesty, I straighten my posture slightly, pulling on the soldier's composure to hold myself in. My body cannot contain itself. He was my friend. My best friend. And I am alone.

"I'm sorry." I say professionally, detached, and stand to leave. I should not have come, how could I possibly articulate how this feels?

"John." She calls after me, but I do not stop. I simply leave. Out of the door, down the hall, out of the suffocating building. Into the world. I hesitate a moment before calling a cab. I feel the rain pat my head, bleed into my hair, slip down my face. I hail a cab. It's back to living now, back to moving, and breathing, and existing. But I do not exist, I am not here. I do not know where I am.

I make the repetitive walk up the flat steps. Mrs. Hudson stirs in the room below, but she does not open the door. She will be up later to fuss over the flat. Which is her clever way of fussing over me. She worries too much.

I open the door and close it behind me, the flat is dark. It is quiet and empty, exactly how I left it. I begin to turn a lamp on by the study and unravel myself, one thread at a time. I pull off my coat, a layer of my being stripped away. I slide off my shoes, another layer shed. I allow myself to leave my shoes by the coat rack, and walk to the bedroom. I feel the threads of myself trailing behind me, coming loose. I pull off my pants, just another layer. All these threads falling around me, until I am unraveled entirely. I fold my pants neatly and place them in my hamper. Mindless controlled activity to keep my mind controlled. Everything must be under control.

I am a soldier.

I turn and head for the kitchen. I am quiet. I make no noise, careful not to wake the ghosts. If I am not careful, I may cause something to stir in the dark. Some old moment will claw its way through time and come crashing into me.

My mind tugs at my body, slowing my pace. I feel as though he could be here this moment. His essence infects the air, it stains the walls. It crawls up my spine. It's stronger tonight than usual. I hate it. I cannot escape it. It haunts me. It's too easy to pretend he is simply in the next room, staring at the fireplace, as he often did. His violin resting in his lap, the bow leaning from his palm forward onto his shoulder, like a ladder reaching upward. His aquamarine eyes absent, reflecting the fire. He would sit like that for hours, lost in his own mind.

I look toward that chair now. It sits empty. Untouched. The dim lighting settles over it like a plague.

Sometimes I notice Sherlock's coat hanging from the rack. And I have to stop myself from reaching out to feel it. I've already learned that lesson. Nothing is real.

I try to shake his presence, yet it picks at my resolve. I shut all of these thoughts out and open the fridge. Old milk stands alone on the shelf. Lunch meat. Rum. Nothing. I glance at the rum again. And sigh. I haven't the energy. I close the door and decide to sleep instead. I am not hungry.

I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, motionless. I do not think, I do not move. I simply will sleep to come. But it does not. The rain has lightened up and now it gently taps the window. Just soft rapping on the glass.

My ears pick up some peculiar sound through the humming of the rain. It is very faint, just a whisper swimming through these empty rooms. It takes my mind less than a second to decipher the sound.

A violin.

It plays faintly. Just a few cords strung in the quiet of night. I clench my eyes shut. But he plays on. Just like the many sleepless nights before. I grab my pillow and push it over my face, smothering out the sound.

 _Leave me alone_! I demand it; this ghost. I try to leave it here, tucked away in the bed, or behind the shower curtain, or in the fridge. Anywhere I can close it in. I leave it here and go anywhere else. I go to Scotland Yard, or a girlfriend's, or the office. But the ghost follows me.

There is no ghostless place. So I fall asleep to my friend playing his violin.

 

* * *

 

 

"John, you really must be getting up now, dear." Mrs. Hudson's voice creeps into my dreamless sleep. I peel my eyes open, her blurry image slowly comes into focus. She stands tentatively at my bedroom door. I pull the cover up to my chest to keep from exposing myself. She grabs my robe from the living room and hands it to me.

"I haven't work today, Mrs. Hudson." I reply.

"You hardly go to the office anymore, John. You were doing so well just a couple months ago. I really don't know what's happened now." She scolds me. I resist the urge to call her mother.

"May I have some tea?"

"Not your housekeeper, dear." She responds as she slides the door closed. I quickly get up and slip into my robe. She'll make tea, it's become our routine. And I am thankful for her.

I open the door and find her in the kitchen with a pot on the stove, "What have you today, then?" She calls to me.

"Lestrade's asked for me to look at the Brody case." I shuffle through some papers resting on the desk, morgue, and other, reports Lestrade keeps sending my way. It took a while for Lestrade to begin requesting my help, and even longer for me to oblige. After what happened we had to be careful, Lestrade couldn't risk being reprimanded. It took everyone a while to fit back into place, to return to our places, like puzzle pieces scattered about. Only there's one major piece missing. And now I feel myself falling out again.

Mrs. Hudson seems to be the only one to notice. I see it in the way she looks at me. To be honest I don't entirely know what's happened either. I was beginning to do well, after awhile. The ghosts slithered back into the dark places they crawled out of and I almost felt the monster inside of me whither down. But these last couple months have pulled the monster from its depths and now I feel it eating away at my chest. I see Sherlock everywhere. Sometimes I come home to his scent. I believe it is driving me mad.

I guess I just miss my friend.

"Is that really good for you? After all that's happened with Sherlock?" She takes the pot off the burner when it hisses and pours the steaming water into a mug. Her frail hand and thin fingers hold the pot steady, her bracelet reflects the sunlight peeling in through the windows. I notice the bracelet is new, not something I've seen her wear before, the silver glistens around her pale wrist.

"Attention has lightened on Lestrade, and they could use my help." She sets the mug on the desk next to me as I speak. I have learned a few things from my friend. A consequence of prolonged exposure. My observational skills have developed enough for me to be of some use. Though I was very unsure at first. It actually took me by surprise the first time I worked a case. I assured Lestrade I would be of little help, but he insisted. I almost couldn't do it. I stood outside the crime scene, feeling naked without him. I felt less than, like I was missing something. But something happened when I entered the scene. I noticed details I don't believe I would have noticed before. And suddenly he was there with me. My therapist was right, it does make me feel closer to him.

I pull myself away from my reflections and pick up the warm cup, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"You're welcome." She replies lightly. Her brows furrowed.

"I do hope this one is better than the last." I pointedly look at her bracelet. She looks startled at first, and subconsciously lowers her hand to her side. She does not date often; she has had bad luck recently, a dreadful man. I noticed he had a nasty habit of lying. But this bracelet must not have been from him, a new one then. The bracelet is too nice, it would have been above his pay grade. And he had no taste for gifts. Mrs. Hudson deserved better.

"I must be off, dear." She changes the topic, weary of my scrutiny. "If you need anything, phone me." I nod a kind goodbye as she leaves through the door. The flat falls silent once she is gone. I sip the hot tea, and read through the morgue report again. But my mind is not entirely focused on the case. It drifts outside, through the window. It drifts across the street, over the nearby buildings, it drifts over London. Until it settles upon a far too familiar place.

It shifts between the trees and across the grass, it floats over stones until it rests at the exact spot it has many times before. I find myself reading Sherlock's headstone. I must visit today. I lay the paper back onto the desk and turn toward the bedroom. I change quickly, new motivation growing inside me. It has been awhile since I've visited him. But I cannot put it off further. I need this. I slip on my shoes and my coat and lock up behind me as I leave. The autumn air engulfs me and I hurry into a cab, an odd, sad, kind of excitement bubbles in my chest. I prepare myself for the experience.

I'm going to see my best friend. My only friend.


	3. Come Home

  
  
  
**_Sherlock_ **

 

The leaves rustle with the gentle Autumn breeze. I hug my coat tighter to my stomach. I shift on my feet. I've been waiting slightly longer than anticipated, but I know he will come. The scent of oak flows from the moist tree next to which I am perched. Just as my patience thins to an intolerable degree, I see him. His small figure trudges across the wet grass.

My discernible eyes detect the faintest of limps. Not something anyone else would notice, but I know every sway of John's walk. I know the exact angle degree at which he shifts his body when changing step. He holds his weight just slightly more to the right now, something he did not do before.

I watch him closely as he approaches. His left hand is stuffed into his coat pocket, his right sways with his walk. He looks down as he walks, looking up occasionally to observe his surroundings. His sandy blonde hair tousles in the breeze, he hasn't combed it. Or gone to the barber, it's an inch longer. He left the flat quickly, his coat is wrinkled, his jeans as well. He must not have work today.

He finally reaches my grave and comes to an almost awkward stop, holding his form a few feet from my gravestone. He takes a breath and shifts, something he often does when struggling to find words. I stand a few yards from him now, within hearing range but out of his line of vision. I scrutinize his gentle face. Bags under his eyes, restless sleep. Slightly more prominent cheekbones, less weight. Not eating. Judging by the looseness of his coat and jeans, approximately two inches more lax than two months ago, I'd guess he's lost about 10 pounds. Hard to tell at this distance. Unshaven, not more than a couple days however.

A part of me wishes I could simply go to him. Bring him within my grasp and fully analyze him. Observe every atom of his being and scold him for his personal neglect. I wish I could help him. But I would be putting him in more danger by revealing my state. Two of the three snipers have been apprehended by Mycroft's men, the last, the one aiming for John, remains free. I must find him. Despite his sights being no longer set on John's head, he cannot go free. He pointed a gun at John with the intent to fire. Carelessly. Without regard. He was going to kill my friend.

I will get him if it's the last thing I do.

So John must wait. But this wait has damaged him. I can see it in his darkened eyes now. He looks weary. Tired. Exhaustion pulls on his features. Something feels heavy inside of me, I feel the weight pulling me down, anchoring me to the earth. It is inexplicable. I blink these thoughts away and focus on John.

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Trying to find the right words. He pulls his hand out of his pocket, and clenches and unclenches his fists, a habit of his when he's nervous. He's never aware he's doing it, but I've always noticed.

"Sherlock." His voice cuts through the space between us, "I know I haven't...visited in a bit." He gestures toward my headstone, "Now don't look at me like that." The corner of my mouth pulls upward, just slightly. His hands fall loosely to his sides, "It's been hard." His voice is quiet. The corner of my mouth falls back down. I don't like the sound in his voice.

"You're supposed to be here." His voice carries weight, a slight hint of anger hidden in a plea. Something forces me to look away from him, I realize it's shame. I am ashamed. But my absence is necessary and being ashamed is nonsensical, I remind myself. John will simply have to do with things as they are. I return my gaze to his diminished form.

"I-" he cuts himself off. Takes a deep breath. "I'm so alone, Sherlock. I thought...that I could do this." I hug my coat even tighter around myself, I feel cold creeping all over my skin. "I'm to go on acting as though things are better- that everything's normal again. But they're not, Sherlock." Frustration shows on his face, "Nothing is alright!" His voice raises slightly. He adjusts himself, perhaps to regain his resolve.

After a quiet moment he continues, "This is not how things are supposed to be. I don't care what anybody says, they're wrong. I know you-" he catches himself, "-knew you." Pain echoes in his tone, his voice heightened again. "What you did was real, Moriarty was real. And I'm-" he straightens his posture, holds himself in, calms his voice, "I'm tired. I'm tired of being the only one who's fighting for you." His words bloat in my chest, they solidify in my lungs, in my stomach, in my core. They swell until there's no room for me to breathe.

I cannot contain more, but he continues, pained. "Sherlock, I-I-" he swallows, "I don't know how much longer I can. It's too bloody quiet! I need you to-" he stops abruptly, anger spills over his pale features. He shoves his hands in his pockets and turns away. He starts to leave but as quickly as he leaves, he turns back. He rips his hands out of his pockets, unable to hold himself in any longer, "I need you to come home!"

His voice is too loud, it hits me in my stomach, it takes me by surprise. My mind works to understand why, but it's my body that feels the weight of his words. This isn't his fight, he shouldn't have to carry the weight of it.

"But you can't." Finality infects his voice. His voice is controlled again, his body straightened, a soldier's posture. "You're never coming back." He seems to be telling himself this, "Sometimes I think this is just another one of your tricks, another experiment. But I remember-" his voice cuts out, he takes a shaky breath. "I'll never forget seeing you like that." He closes his eyes, as though trying to escape the image. I know he's talking about my body on the sidewalk.

He opens his mouth to say something else, pain showing in his eyes. Something changes his mind and he closes his mouth. He nods curtly then walks toward my headstone. His pace is tentative, weary. He gently places his left hand upon it, a simple movement, yet carrying so much significance. I realize I've been holding my breath and don't let it out until he allows his hand to slowly slide off the cold rock and back into his pocket. This time when he turns and walks away he does not turn back.

 

* * *

 

 

I follow John to a small cafe not far from our flat. I watch through the window as he quietly takes a table. He sits alone for a bit, and I find something uncomfortably sad in that. A plump waiter happily greets him, they exchange brief conversation, John remaining curt. The waiter leaves him alone to browse the menu in peace. I notice John's left leg bouncing in small quick movements, as though he's waiting for something. I narrow my eyes. He isn't particularly dressed for any kind of date or meeting, yet his eyes shift from the menu to the door every few minutes.

Finally he rests the menu on the table and motions for the waiter. The man comes quickly, happily, to John's side and beams down at him while John speaks. From here I can see why the waiter must be so happy. He didn't go home last night. He is slightly unshaven, yet the pristine condition of his hair implies he takes regular care, and would otherwise be clean-shaven. His uniform is too wrinkled, it hasn't been washed since yesterday's shift. Based on his finely groomed hair and polished shoes, he isn't one to come in in wrinkled clothes.

I try to pry my focus from the joyous man back to John. He speaks quickly and with surety, as shown on his face. He wears an impeccable mask, but I've seen behind it, in the most intimate moments of night, when he thinks no one can see.

The waiter nods brightly and scribbles on his notepad. He leaves John alone at the table. John checks his phone, types something into it then places it back into his pocket. He looks out the window uneasily. His phone demands his attention again and he pulls it out to check it. He nods slightly to himself. Who is he waiting for? I analyze his face for any details. The corners of his mouth pull up slightly, a friendly acquaintance then. His somewhat nervous body language, the shaking of his leg, the shifting of his eyes, tell me it's someone he hasn't grown entirely comfortable with, but cares about. A woman? The new girlfriend. He's been seeing her for a couple months now, I assumed nothing serious, but John is a rather serious person. Perhaps he's felt like he needed her. This doesn't make any sense to me, why must he bother? She's hardly an asset.

His eyes look toward the door and light up with recognition, I look as well. A woman, average height, dark blonde hair, walks into the cafe. Mary, her name floats around in my head. I've scrutinized her greatly over the months. Middle class, average body, prefers cats over dogs but has no pets. Right handed, broke her left leg as a child, her right leg is slightly more dominant. Office job, her body is cared for, her skin untanned. The cafe window obscures her image slightly, making it more difficult to read her from this distance. No matter, I've read her plenty of times before. She certainly fancies John, her body language too open around him.

She smiles brightly at him, he stands to great her. They hug, his hands placed on her upper back, hers on his lower, slightly more intimately than his. Her hands fully on his back, fingers spread, her arms comfortable accepting his presence, no reserve in bodily contact, they've certainly slept together. I roll my eyes. John is too easily distracted. But I suppose it is for the better, something to distract his wandering mind while I work on sorting things out. But he isn't as welcoming as she, he remains slightly hesitant, unsure of the intimacy. Not from disregard, but more likely from fear or some other conservative sentiment, I am not sure.

They sit opposite each other at the table just as the waiter brings two cups and place them in front of the two individuals. John's ordered for her, knowing what she wants. For some inexplicable reason this irritates me. It's too casual, too close. An almost child-like sentiment misses when it was  _me_  he knew that well. When I was the only one he was close to. Now I feel as though I've been replaced, by a new friend. A friend of a different nature, but this only reiterates the intimacy in their relationship and the death of our own.

I lean back in my chair and glance across the street, distracting myself from the scene unfolding in the cafe. The London street is busy, people hustle by without any recognition of my, or anyone else's, existence. I pull my cap further down my face, blocking my eyes from view. I know I'm not being followed or watched, but it would be unwise to not take extra precaution. My uncharacteristically bright (and boring) outfit can attest to that. Blue jeans, grey sweater. I am clearly not myself. Mycroft is insistent I do not leave his residence until he has tracked the last sniper, but he knows me better than that. I would simply die from the captivity, besides, I'm as interested in finding the sniper as he. In fact, more so. But I don't discuss this with him. I derive any data I require from him through my usual dubious means and go on my way.

But today isn't about being caged at Mycroft's, or hunting killers; today is about John. I must also remind myself to pay Molly a visit, I do owe her so much. But I do not feel rushed to see her. I need to watch John more closely. He hasn't been himself lately either. And it's become rather troubling. I look back into the cafe. I'm sitting just outside, but to the side of the building, in one of their patio chairs. I've ordered myself coffee upon first arriving and sip it now. I simply need something less suspicious to do at a cafe than sit and stare at people.

My eyes trail across the pairing inside. They're comfortable with each other. They laugh. John still holds his reserve but it's a laugh nonetheless. He may not be himself, but she's bringing him closer to it. I worry about how far this relationship will go. It's becoming more noticeable by day. More of a solid tangible thing. I worry about how it will effect things upon my eventual return. I may no longer be the pinnacle in John's life, no longer his sole best friend. It seems unfair, really. I hadn't much choice in leaving, but he's choosing to replace me. He forgets he's  _my_  only friend as well; if his time is consumed by another, I lose my only friend. My best friend. I never really understood John's dating, in truth he was never very good at it. And it only serves as distraction. It also takes from our working time, our time. Makes him less productive. Maybe he's choosing this distraction now. To distract him from my absence?

I shake these thoughts from my mind, but they plague me. I try not to grimace at their trivial, useless flirting. Such a waste of energy. She reaches across the table, takes his hand in hers. He smiles kindly. His eyes welcoming. I suddenly feel the urge to leave. I've watched long enough. These things usually end the same and I don't feel motivated to watch John leave with her. At least while he's with her I can be assured he isn't left to his own demons. She is a distraction after all. Feeling as though he'll be safe for the time being, since she cares after him as much as Mrs. Hudson does, and then some, I finally get up to leave.

I leave the money for the coffee on the table under my cup and turn to walk the opposite direction down the street. I avoid using cabs, too much of risk that in close proximity and with my voice, I may draw attention. It's time to visit Molly, I suppose. I make the long walk to the hospital, she'll be working at this hour. Early in the afternoon, she'll take her lunch soon and I can message her to come to the back entrance that leads to the lower levels of the hospital. This is how we meet, when we can. When it's safe I go to the morgue with her. Only in privacy.

 

* * *

 

 

I make it to the hospital a little later and make my way around back when no one is paying attention. I walk quickly between the two parallel buildings and come to a small back door, locked of course. I quickly message her.

Come now.   
Out back.

I need not leave a signature, she knows it's me. It'll take her approximately 1.5 minutes to reach the door, she's promised to stop whatever she's doing and come immediately when I message her, so that I don't have to wait too long, raising the chance of being noticed. A solitary figure in a darkened alley can be rather suspicious. It isn't long before I hear two quick knocks on the door. Reassurance it is her and not some other staff coming out for a smoke. Which is rare, but in that event I've learned to be prepared. Pull the cap over my face and walk past them quickly, as though I'm simply a homeless man on his way. My terrible attire certainly sells the part.

After I hear the two faint knocks the door clicks open and Molly's gentle face greets me timidly. Her pale cheeks are rosy, the tip of her thin nose is slightly pink and red lipstick lightly outlines her small delicate lips. Her dark honey hair is pulled back in a side braid, framing her thin oval face. Her wide eyes light up at seeing me and her small frame steps to the side, opening the door for me. I step inside quickly. She quietly closes the door and holds her hands, somewhat nervously, in front of her.

"Sherlock!" Her soft voice crawls through the empty hallway with controlled excitement, "is everything okay?"

"Yes, everything is quite alright." My deeper voice cuts through the cold air. I think perhaps I ought to compliment her, or show some form of concern. It's needless, she's clearly alright, but she always seems to react positively to my doing so.

"How are...things?" I try. Her face brightens.

"Oh, everything's well. Gotten a lot of dead bodies!" She says cheerfully, but then suddenly realizes how terrible it sounds, "I-I mean-no- I just meant work is going we-"

"It's fine, Molly. How's Lestrade?" I cut her off, impatient from waiting while she stumbles over her words. Her cheeks burn red but she quickly recovers.

"Great. I mean, he still talks about you..." Her voice grows a little quiet. "I don't think he ever really believed in any of that Richard Brooke nonsense." I nod approvingly. "And after they found his body on the roof from apparent suicide, he become absolutely positive something wasn't right." She's told me this before so I begin walking as she talks. I find an empty laboratory and step inside with her. Best to avoid lounging in the hallway.

"Yes I know, Molly. Has he made any progress on the case since last we spoke?" It's been less than four months since the last time I visited Molly, and the status of Lestrade's work on my case hadn't much improved since he began working on it after my presumed death. Mostly because nobody gave him much credit after it all happened. I still regret how much blame came down on him.

Molly subconsciously plays with her fingers, "I'm afraid not much. He's sure Richard Brooke was fake, he's brought in the reporter who wrote Brooke's story for questioning on several occasions but can't seem to get anywhere with her."

"No, of course not, Moriarty was too good for that." I confirm her claim. Riley was a perfect choice for Moriarty, she being easily manipulated by him and equally stubborn. I have to give Lestrade credit for still trying, even after nearly two years. Especially despite not having me to help him. Or anyone on his side. And the chief superintendent challenging his every move.

My phone vibrates in my coat pocket and I quickly pull it out to check the message. It can only be Mycroft, since I am here with Molly.

Where have you wandered to now?  
MH

I was planning on returning before he got home. Guess not. Molly looks at me slightly nervously, her innocent eyes plead with me.

"When can you return- I mean, not just to me- or- here." She closes her eyes, probably cursing herself, "But completely- to everyone?" She finally finishes and looks at me expectantly.

"Soon." I state simply. "I've almost got everything sorted out." She opens her mouth to say something but I'm already heading for the door. Before opening the laboratory door I turn to her and look at her with what I assume is kindness, "Thank you, Molly." I say gently. She doesn't have time to react, her cheeks flush and she opens her mouth to say something but I'm already through the door. I walk purposefully down the hallway and sneak out of the exit door. I must get back to Mycroft before it gets too late, and he gets too annoyed. Although I rather enjoy that part.


	4. A Curious Find

  
  
  
**_John_ **

 

Mary. I like her, I do. But I hesitate, I don't know why. She smiles at me broadly. She is beautiful. And she's got a lovely personality. She's so lively. An excellent contrast to the rest of my life. But there is something inside of me that recoils from her approach. It's not something I quite understand. Sometimes I find myself comparing her to Sherlock. Not in any romantic manner, yet I scrutinize her in terms of him. What would he think of her? Probably assume the relationship is a waste of time. I smile to myself. That's Sherlock.

"What is it?" She asks from across the cafe table. I pull myself from my thoughts.

"Oh, nothing. I was just remembering something." I dismiss the subject. She looks like she wants to ask more but she lets it go. She smiles again and sips her tea.

"Have you any plans today?" She suddenly asks.

I shrug, "Time with you is all." She brightens, pleased.

"Well, I was thinking we could go to the show?"

"Not much playing, really." I don't know why I reject the proposal.

"We can stay in." Her words hold double meaning and her eyes hold hope. I smile and nod but can't seem to hold eye contact.

"Shall I come by after work, then?" Her lunch hour will end soon. If she comes over after her shift ends I'll have some time to myself.

"Uh, I'll come to your place." It surprises me, my desire to keep her from the flat. She's been there before, but it isn't quite right. A part of me still sees it as Sherlock's flat as well.

Her eyes gleam, "I'll make dinner then. We'll have a night in." It's decided. She glances at her wrist watch.

"Do you have to go, already?"

"Soon, but I've got a little time." Her kind smile pulls on her thin lips. Small wrinkles form just slightly on the bridge of her nose when she smiles, something I've always liked.

"You know, I was speaking to my mom the other day and she said she had the most awful time at the..."

I nod as she talks, but my mind wanders, her words drift in and out of my mind. My eyes shift from her fair complexion to the cafe window next to us. They crawl over the mass of people walking along the shops. They walk quickly, holding their coats tightly to their bodies, fighting the cold.

"-And what's worse is she couldn't get the right color-"

Everyone seems absorbed in their own course, oblivious to everyone else. Solitary, but by choice. I think about how quiet the flat is at night. How empty it often feels. I look at Mary, her face is so expressive as she speaks. She really is bright, so what's wrong with me? We've been going out for months now, and I know she expects more. Some kind of future. How can I have a future if I can't escape the past?

"-and oddly enough, she brought us up-"

I nod at her, keeping her talking. I glance out the window again, my eyes scanning the street.

"I told her we're taking it at our own pace. She wouldn't come off it-"

My eyes catch something further down the street.

"-It had become rather awkward-"

Dark curly hair.

"-and the conversation had gotten really serious about you and I, and if we loved each other-"

Tall, elegant body.

"And I told her I love you and you love-"

"Sherlock." The word slips out of my mouth before my mind could shut my lips. They close after the word has already infected the air between us.

"Excuse me?" A troubling tone creeps into her voice.

Oh god, what was she saying? I rack my brain for what she was talking about. Her mother? She had mentioned her mother. I try to look back at her but my eyes cling to the sight through the window. They search, pointlessly, for him. I know he isn't there. But my eyes devour the people in the street in search of his likeness. I feel her stare burn into me. I look back at her. I try an innocent smile. She doesn't smile back.

"You love Sherlock?" She asks, testing me.

Is that what she asked? I try to ignore the heat rising in my cheeks.

"Oh, I didn't mean-it's just-" she doesn't look amused, I try again, "I thought I saw him on the street." Honesty, that's the way to go. The glare in her eyes might suggest otherwise. I point with my index finger toward the spot on the sidewalk where I thought I saw him.

Her eyes glance that way, anger becomes replaced with timid worry, "John, what has been going on? You've been so distracted."

"Nothing. I am fine- I'm fine." I reassure her. "Just thought I saw him there-"

"But you know, he's not. Right?" She says slowly, carefully, as though if she spoke too loudly, too surely, her words might shoot right through me. But that's exactly how they feel. Like bullets. "And he won't be. He's gone."

There it goes, the final bullet. Right through my chest, into my lungs, into my beating heart, through my spine and out of my back. I keep my voice controlled and calm, "Right, I just saw someone who looked like him. That's all." Calm and casual. An act I've mastered.

She releases a breath and smiles at me, but the worry lingers in her eyes. "Well, anyway." Her fingers play with the base of her tea cup.

"You mentioned your mother?" I try to salvage the date.

Her face brightens just slightly, "Yes, well she was really curious about how we were doing." I nod enthusiastically. "And I told her we're doing perfectly well."

"Of course!" I say positively, but the feeling isn't the same. Her eyes drop to her tea, my eyes look toward the street. She sighs. I smile at her. She smiles back. My fingers drum on my leg. She plays with her cup some more.

"Well-" I start.

"This-" She says at the same time. We both stop. We both smile. I laugh lightly.

"I ought to be getting back then." She announces.

"It's time already?"

"Afraid so." She stands and grabs the strap of her purse. I stand to see her off.

"See you tonight?" I ask as I lean in to give her a hug.

"Yes, John." Her voice is sweet and matured. She gives me a caring kiss on the lips. Nothing too intimate, it lasts only a second. Our lips brush, her Chapstick smells like strawberries, her breath like honey and herbs. She pulls away and her green eyes sparkle at me, her nose wrinkles with her smile. She's such a warm person. She walks away, I stand looking at her as she leaves. After she leaves I decide to pay for our drinks and leave as well.

 _Well, that was awkward_ , I think as I push through the cafe door. The cool autumn air swallows me and blows through my short hair. I squint my face against the breeze and inhale the autumn scent. Wet pavement, dead leaves, moist air. Sherlock once told me autumn was his favorite season. I replay that moment in my head as I adjust my coat tighter around me.

Without having to go into work today, I find myself having nowhere to go. Until Mary gets off work, I've nothing to do. So I hail a cab and tell the driver to take me to 221b Baker Street. Time to go home.   
  
  
  


**_Molly_ **

 

It still surprises me every time he visits. After hearing so often of his death, it's a relief when he calls. Of course I know he isn't dead, but it still felt so real for a bit there at the beginning. It was especially hard watching Lestrade and John suffer. But I made Sherlock a promise, and they could not know about his being alive. And especially about my helping. I push these thoughts around my mind in the quiet moments after he left earlier today.

His visit was brief, they are always so brief. I try to get him to stay longer but never seem to do the right thing. Or say the right thing. Why can't I just talk to him?

I push the gurney through the morgue door and the cold immediately engulfs my body and the body I am pushing. I've grown used to the cold, I actually prefer it at times. It's quiet down here as well, with Sherlock being in hiding I don't often get visitors. At least it isn't too dark in here. Light shines in from the windows above, but this place still holds a kind of clandestine nature to it.

The metal wheels creak as I turn the gurney and angle the body beneath the large light in the center of the examination room. The light reflects off of the white sheet covering the large man. I pull the sheet back,revealing the mans broad features. His face is slightly bloated, the tongue bulged outward a little, his skin and lips a blueish color and his eyes milky-red with blood vessels busted within them. The bruising and slight lacerations around the neck clearly state a strangulation. The angle of these markings dip upward as they wrap around the back of the neck, suggesting hanging rather than a straight strangulation. Perhaps suicide.

I use an advanced camera to take photos of these and any other markings. It's important that I keep visual as well as physical record. I pull the sheet all the way off of the body and lay it in the dirty sheets bin by the door. I focus my mind on the man laying before me, yet it wanders back to Sherlock. He looked well today. His cheeks flushed, his eyes almost bright. Almost as lively as he used to be, but not quite. He hasn't been the same since he's had to leave everyone. I try not to notice but I can see it. His eyes not quite as bright, his step not quite as light.

I shave the man's chest, preparing him for the autopsy. I'm sure of the cause of his death, but Lestrade requested further investigation, because his death was suspicious. His blonde hair is thick on his wide chest, so this takes time. It's during these moments that I think the most, my mind works on everything at once.

Today Sherlock seemed especially heavy. He looked well, but heavy. Like he carried a weight nobody could see. But I can. I know how it feels. That weight has rested upon my back for so long, I'd recognize it anywhere. It's the weight of loss. Losing something, or someone, you may not even know you want. Or need. Ever since I had met Sherlock I've felt that weight. And now he carries it as well. Everyone suffered from his loss, of course. But for some it was simply different. For some it was more than the loss of a gifted detective. Even if he wasn't really gone.

When he spoke to me, his voice was low. It was detached. His aquamarine eyes were dull. It was almost painful to look at them. I remember the glow they used to emit. Like some fire burned behind them, consuming his mind and soul. And now? Now they just look empty. And tired.

It causes a peculiar ache in my chest when I see him. His perfectly sculpted face hiding some inner pain. He thinks nobody can see. That's how he was with John as well. But John's presence always managed to lessen it somehow. As much as it hurt to know that, it was true. John somehow lessened his pain. Sometimes when Sherlock visits, and I tell him how John is, I'll catch a glimpse of that light in his eyes again. Not complete ignition, but more of an echo. Some fragment of hope left behind, clinging desperately.

The man's body is cold and rigid, rigamortis having already set in. Lividity showing around his back indicates that the blood settled within him, while he was laying on his back. This is only possible if someone had cut him down immediately after the hanging and left him laying on his back. That certainly is suspicious. He couldn't have been found hanging then. I make a note of all of this.

As I scribble these notes down on the report, and draw in the markings from the body on the outline of a body on the report my mind replays Sherlock's earlier visit. Again. God, if he'd only stayed a moment longer. Maybe I would have been able to say more.

His soft skin and gentle eyes greeted me when I opened the door. It still makes my heart quicken when I see him. The angle of his thin nose and jaw, delicate yet strong. His entire presence exhibits eloquence and determination. I try not to acknowledge it, but when he's around, a part of me feels fragile. I almost feel exposed. It's mostly becomes I'm too awkward to behave the way I wish I would around him. Or the way he might want me to. But there's really no pleasing him.

I've told myself many times before I'm done with it. That I shouldn't try so hard, it only ends in disaster and I go on hating myself. But then he waltzes in and suddenly I'm on the outside watching me humiliate myself. Like I can't control it. I don't mean to humiliate myself, I just mean to be noticeable. But then I forget it's Sherlock Holmes and I couldn't be unnoticeable even if I were ghost. So it really just comes off as trying too hard.

I shake my head at myself and return to the man's body. I mark the outline for the incision to be made along his chest and abdomin. I apply the appropriate pressure to the scalpel as I drag it along the lines I drew and his skin splits apart. Without pulsing blood, he doesn't bleed. Coagulated blood clots at the openings, but without the heart pushing it thought his veins it doesn't spill out. I pull the skin off of the muscle, it sticks a little but I manage to pull it all back, exposing the muscular layers beneath, as well as yellowish fat. The membrane covering his abdomin is coated in fat. The area on his chest however, is comprised of more developed muscle. He must have had a labor job, nothing involving cardio, but certainly heavy lifting. His arms are bulky as well.

I think about Sherlock's lean frame. Far preferable compared to this. His tall, elegant form moves with grace. His power lies in his intellect rather than muscle. Something I've always appreciated.

I cut through the man's pectoral muscles and use a large device to break the ribs with precision so that I may pull them back, exposing the chest cavity. I ignore the scent of old blood and dying meat. I'm too used to it now. Besides, the worst smells remain hidden in gases and juices within the stomach and intestines. As I pull each organ out one by one I imagine Sherlock as he was earlier. His black curly hair framing his gently arched eyebrows. His slightly curved neck leading down, under his grey sweatshirt. I've gotten used to seeing him dressed in such a lazy manner. It really is against his nature; if I didn't know better, and if I didn't see his face, I might not recognize him. Which is precisely the point.

I measure and weigh each organ and note other observations about them before setting them aside. Finally I get to the stomach. I carefully remove it and set it in its own trey. I delicately cut it open and begin sifting through its contents. The man ate well before dying. It had to have been shortly before his death, the food was nowhere near being fully broken down by the stomach acids. Of course they still decompose after death but he ate a lot so there was much left over to examine. He seemed to have a habit of not chewing his food completely. The dark greenish-brown contents are slushy as well as chunky. He apparently enjoyed a steak. Some other food groups as well, bread possibly. Just as I shuffle through this grotesque blend my fingers push against something hard. Far too hard to be food, chewed or not.

I fish it out and wipe it off. It's a small black cylinder, much like a film canister but about a fourth the size. Small enough to be swallowed at least. I make note of it before examining it further. I realize it has a cap on it. I pry the cap off and find a thin piece of what I assume is paper rolled up inside. Using tweezers I pull the paper out, being incredibly careful. Despite myself, I feel excitement growing in my chest. Sherlock would be ecstatic if he were here. This almost makes me smile.

With the paper free of the canister I set it on a gauze pad and take off my gloves. I put new, clean gloves on. The paper was clean, protected by its casing from the stomach contents and I didn't want to soil it with my dirty gloves. With fresh gloves on I unroll the small paper. It unfolds to reveal some digits scrawled messily on its surface.

That's it? My brows knit together in confusion. I had hoped for something more. I wonder what the numbers could mean. I use the camera to take photos of the paper, and canister. This will all go into evidence.

The excitement still bubbles in my chest and I have to physically stop myself from messaging Sherlock. I'm not supposed to do that. But I want so badly to hear what he thinks of this.

I finish the autopsy without taking my mind off of what I found and after cleaning up I phone Lestrade.

He was right, this certainly is suspicious.


	5. The Last Sniper

  
  
  
**_Sherlock_ **

 

My eyes bore into the plain ceiling. I hear Mycroft in the next room, I hop up from the sofa quickly. My body literally struggles to contain itself, this is intolerable. Insufferable!

I burst through the door into the adjacent room and almost run into Mycroft. His controlled posture welcomes me calmly. His thin yet round face remains calm and expressionless. The short dark hair on his head is receding further, getting thinner. His sharp eyes look me over.

"Brother," he says with a level tone, "I see you've been out."

"That was ages ago!" I dismiss his remark. He sits gracefully in the chair behind his massive desk. He toils with a pen in his long fingers.

"You're getting careless." He warns me. I roll my eyes.

"Oh, please." I scoff at him.

"Don't forget I also thought you were dead, Sherlock." I can almost sense annoyance in his voice, "Stop playing around!" Definitely annoyance.

"I had something to take care of." I announce nonchalantly.

"John is perfectly fine without you meddling in his affairs."

"Molly, actually." Now I'm trying to hide the annoyance in my voice.

He tilts his head toward me with his eyebrows raised, wrinkles creased into his long forehead. He rises from his chair and places the pen upon his desk. He sighs.

"I can't keep watch over you while you prance about-"

"I don't need your watching." I cut him off.

"You did once." He reminds me. "Someone had to be there to clean up the mess you made."

"How's our sniper doing? Well, I presume?" I tease him.

He folds his hands into the pockets of his suit, "Stay here, would you? We can't afford another Bartholomew on our hands."

"Everything is under control. I don't see why I have to remain caged here like an animal." I spit the words out. I only came to him after my fake suicide to acquire information about Moriarty's snipers. It just so happened that staying here was a better outcome than staying in hiding somewhere else. Being here gives me access, unbeknown by Mycroft, to a wealth of information. Certainly an advantage.

He seems to resign a little and reaches for a file on his desk behind him. He hands it to me, "Don't be so dramatic. I've work to do, Sherlock. Try and behave." He walks past me and leaves the office. I open the folder and find a picture of a young man resting within, under which lie papers. I quickly read through the papers.

A Russian name stares back at me, as well as personal information. Date of birth, parents names, personal history. Professional history, including a list of people. It takes less than a second for me to recognize what it is. A list of his hits. Something swells in my stomach when I realize this is the last sniper. I analyze his photograph, short dark hair, brown eyes, square face, a hard line resting on his thin lips. I imagine those cold eyes staring down a rifle viewfinder at John's unsuspecting head.

I memorize his name, Grigory Volkov. I memorize every line and curve of his face. I commit to memory every detail of his file. The picture of him was taken from a short distance, giving me a good amount of detail. He's wearing a dark cap, black coat. He seems to be looking around him, a scrawl on his face.

He's left handed, a wrist watch on his right wrist suggest he's better with his left hand. He also leads with his left foot, he's sitting in the photograph, his left foot placed over his right. His tan skin tells me he spends a lot of time outside, in a hotter climate than Russia or England. He's last assignment must have been closer to the equator.

I survey the report for any information detailing his current position. I find a subnote listing a location he's been spotted at frequently. A warehouse in a small village in Estonia. I'll have to travel then.

Judging by the dates he frequents the warehouse, he'll be there again at the start of next month. This gives me plenty of time to prepare. I assume he won't be alone there so I'll have to catch him before he gets to the location.

I slap the file closed and leave Mycroft's office to prepare for what I must do.   
  
  


**_Lestrade_ **

 

My office phone rings on my desk. I pick it up quickly and lazily hold it to my ear.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." I answer casually.

"Hi!" Molly's soft voice hits my ear, "It's Molly."

"Hey, Molly. How's it going with the case I sent you? The strangulation, it was, I believe?"

"Oh, um, hanging actually. But that's why I called. I found something you'll want to see. Whenever you can come down is fine." Her gentle voice responds.

"Oh, alright then. I'll be down in a moment."

"Okay."

I hang the phone up and grab my coat from the back of my chair. As I pass through my door, Sgt. Sally crosses my path and stops in front of me.

"What is it?" She eyes my coat. Her long curly hair frames her dark face. The brown of her hair matches nicely with the brown of her skin and her smooth elegant features sculpt her face perfectly.

"Molly's found something on the Williams case." I slide into my coat and keep walking. She follows me.

"The strangulation?"

"Hanging, actually." I repeat Molly.

"Alright." She grabs her coat from the coat rack by the door and follows me out. I hail a cab and she dials her phone.

"Meet us at the morgue." She says into her phone as we slide into the cab. She hangs up and slides her phone into her pocket.

"Anderson's on his way, then?"

"He'll be there in a bit. He's talking to Brody's widow."

"Tell him not to worry about the Brody case just yet."

"You can't keep relying on John-"

"He's successfully helped us with the last three cases. We can use his insight."

"Well, I'm not going down with you."

"That's brilliant." I retort.

Before long the cab pulls to the curb outside the hospital. We crawl out and Sally pays the cabby. We rush through the large automatic doors and make the walk down to the morgue.

Molly welcomes us with a wide smile and bright eyes, "Hello."

Sally nods and Molly leads us to a metal table, on which there is a pad with paper resting on top. A small black canister resides open next to the paper.

"What have we got?" I ask politely.

Molly rubs her hands down her white coat and looks at the paper, "I found this inside his stomach. The paper was rolled inside the black case. He must have swallowed it." She points to the canister.

I squint at the paper, "There are numbers here." I grab some of Molly's gloves and slide my hands into them. I pick the paper up and analyze it under the lamp.

"56 57 39. 2 12 4" I read aloud. Molly's brows knit together and Sally squints at the paper.

"What do you think it is?" Sally asks quietly. I shake my head.

"I bet Sherlock would know." Molly pipes in excitedly. We both look at her.

"Sorry." She says timidly.

I look back at the paper, "You're right." The room falls quiet. We could use his help here. We could always use his help.

Sally suddenly speaks, breaking the silence, "We're doing fine without him." She grabs an evidence bag from the cabinet by Molly's desk and holds it open as I drop the paper into it. We put the canister in a second bag. Molly nods anxiously, "Right."

"Thanks, Molly." I say as I grab both the bags. She smiles at both of us. Just as we turn to leave, Anderson walks through the door.

"A little late, Anderson." I announce and hand him the bags as I pass him, he turns and follows Sally and me.

"What's this?" He asks, scrutinizing the bag.

"Something the man swallowed. Numbers of some sort." Sally replies.

Anderson's thin face wrinkles in a grimace, his tall frame rests just inches above Sally's. They fall into pace beside each other. "Swallowed it?" He asks.

"Found it in his stomach." Sally takes the bags from him.

"Why would he swallow it?" Anderson asks as we exit the hospital. Cool air hits us and sunlight streaks through a break in the clouds, igniting everything in a golden glow. I call a cab to the curb. Sally hands me the bags.

"That's what we need to find out." I respond simply and get into the cab. Sally and Anderson hang back, waiting for their own cab. I won't be returning to the Yard just yet. I give the cabby John's address on Baker Street and sit back, analyzing the paper once again.   
  
  


**_John_ **

 

"How was it, then?" Mrs. Hudson's voice hits me as I enter the flat. She's come out of her door to greet me at the base of the stairs. She's got her apron on and a bit of flower on her hands. She beams at me waiting for a response.

"Uh, good. Visited Mary for lunch."

Her eyes light up, "Oh, good, dear! And how is she?"

"She's great, Mrs. Hudson, thank you." I nod politely at her and begin walking upstairs.

"I'm happy to hear that. I'll be bringing up biscuits for you in bit, dear."

I roll my eyes, but can't help but to smile. I assume it's her new boyfriend who's got her in such good spirits. Whatever it may be, it's always nice seeing her cheery.

I let myself into the flat and hang my coat upon the coat rack. I avoid looking into my room as I walk past and instead focus on the desk between the living room windows. All of the files for the cases Lestrade asked me to work on reside here. Just as I begin shuffling through the files the bell rings downstairs. I pause a moment and listen. Mrs. Hudson answers the door. Mumbled voices. Footsteps climbing the stairs.

I turn around to find Lestrade at the top of the stairs by the door. "Lestrade!" I welcome him openly.

"Hello, John. I hope I've got you at a good time."

"Uh, yeah, what's up?"

"Well I was hoping you could take a look at these." He extends his arm and offers me two small bags. I grab the bags from him and peer through the clear plastic.

"What's this?"

"Molly dug it out of a man's stomach earlier today. The paper was inside the canister. There are numbers on the paper but we don't know what they mean. Thought maybe you might." He answers casually and looks around the flat from where he's standing.

We both turn as Mrs. Hudson enters the room carrying a tray of homemade cookies. Lestrade's face widens with a smile, "Ah, Mrs. Hudson." She pushes the tray under his nose.

"Nice and fresh, I've just made them. It's the first batch." She waits as we both take a cookie.

"Thank you, they're lovely." Lestrade responds after taking a small bite. She sets the tray upon the small table next to us, "Of course, dear! How is everything?"

"Oh, it's fine. What about your hip?" He replies as I eat my cookie. Snicker doodle. It is delicious, despite my not liking snicker doodles. Mrs. Hudson wipes her hands on her apron, "Very good, I've hardly noticed it lately." She beams. She leaves us and heads back down the stairs.

I return to the bags in my hands. I give Lestrade the canister and peer more closely at the paper, I have to angle it in the bag just right in order to read the numbers through the plastic. Lestrade finishes his cookie and tucks the canister into his coat pocket.

"What do you think?" He asks.

My brows furrow and my eyes squint as I pass the numbers around in my head. "Could be anything." I state, deep in thought. I think back to my military career and compare the numbers to other number sequences I had come across. Identifiers; serial numbers, MAC addresses, and so on.

"Do you mind if I make a copy?" I finally look back up at him.

"Of course not." He shrugs.

I turn to the study and grab a pen. I quickly jot the numbers down exactly as they are on the paper onto the side of a newspaper resting on the desk.

"Sorry I can't be more helpful." I hand the bag back to him.

"Thanks, John." His voice is heavy with words he doesn't say and for the first time I realize he also avoided looking toward my bedroom; Sherlocks old bedroom. We both ignore this and I walk him to the door.

"I'll phone you if I think of anything."

"See you later, then." He leaves down the stairs and I turn back to the desk and stare down at those numbers. I hear the door open and close downstairs with his exit. He's the closest thing I have to a friend now.


	6. Goodbye, John

  
  
  
**_John_ **

 

With the flat now empty, I settle into the chair facing away from the windows in the living room. Sherlock often sat in this chair and played his violin. I banish this recollection from my mind and work to distract my thoughts by reading the paper. Nothing holds my attention and instead my eyes mindlessly digest the words printed before me. My eyes read them but my mind gives them no value. Reading the paper has become another mindless activity; a routine I've crafted for myself to keep myself busy. Something to pull at my mind to keep it from wandering.

I fold the stiff paper into my lap and stare at the fireplace. Old burnt wood rests in a heap. Ash filling the stone floor of it. The air around me settles over me, putting weight on my shoulders, my chest, my head. It thickens, pushing down on me, swallowing me entirely. The weight floods my ears, invades my lungs, bleeds into my bones. I can almost hear the silence, it's so quiet here. It's like a white noise, building up in my head until the pressure of it threatens to tear through my skull. Just as the weight and silence become too heavy, too loud, I suddenly stand.

I toss the paper onto the desk and run my hands down my face, rubbing my tired eyes. When my hands fall loosely to my sides my eyes land on the instrument that has kept me up so many nights. Sherlocks violin. It lays innocently on its stand beside the desk. I had attempted playing it once, shortly after he died. I don't entirely know why, some internal part of me simply wanted to know how it felt to hold the delicate wood within my hands, rest it upon my shoulder, as Sherlock did. But I couldn't bring myself to run the bow along the cords.

Looking at it now, I suddenly want to feel it again. I like to think he might approve of my learning to play. If he were here he might even smirk, just a light crooked smile to illuminate his curved lips. He'd offer me that half-grin and his eyes would light up with amusement. This image infests my mind and suddenly I'm reaching for the small instrument. My fingers wrap around the neck and lift it gently to my chest. I've only learned to play the clarinet in school, so my hands are untrained; they hold the violin awkwardly. Without confidence I can only bring myself to strum a few cords with my index finger. I pull back the tight cord with my finger and set it free. The cord erupts a heavy sound throughout the flat.

It actually shocks me how clearly it creates an image of Sherlock in my mind. As though the mere sound alone can revive his presence. The note reverberates through the empty rooms and plays in my ears. It's such a delicate sound, almost profound when paired with the memory it ignites. Sherlock standing before the window on a cold winter day. Grey light washing over him from the window, illuminating his elegant black curls and wrapping around his lean body. The violin gracefully held within his hands and upon his shoulder. He'd playfully strike different cords, creating whatever melody his heart desired. On those quiet mornings he'd play something soft, just a few eloquent notes strung together to create something beautiful. And it was beautiful. Whether he was aware of it or not, it was beautiful.

I blink the memory away and look at the place he once stood, in front of the window. It's empty now, of course. The curtains are drawn, holding back the light. Dust has settled along the blinds and on the fabric of the curtains. I look away. A bad taste invades my mouth and I no longer wish to play his violin. I don't even want to touch it. I return it to its place and turn away from it.

 

* * *

 

 

I wake up to a pounding in my skull. With each heartbeat it feels as though someone has taken a sledge hammer to my brain. The pressure pulsates against my skull and pushes at the back of my eyes. I groan and turn over toward the nightstand. I reach blindly for my wristwatch and have to pat the table a few times before my fingers find it.

3:30 am. I groan again. I know I won't be able to sleep with this migraine so I claw myself out of bed. The floor is cold against my bare feet but my mind is consumed by the thumping pain in my head. Cold air wraps around my body, raising goosebumps on my arms and legs but I ignore it.

I make it to the bathroom and turn the light on. I immediately regret doing so, the light explodes in my head, blinding me and swelling in my brain. Nausea swims in my stomach and I have to swallow to keep bile from rushing up my throat. My hands fumble with the drawer next to the sink and hastily pull it open. Inside is a plethora of medicines. Mostly common medications, a few prescriptions. Being a medical practitioner really comes in handy. I shuffle through the medications until I find a painkiller.

I pop the cap and pour out a few pills into the palm of my hand. I don't bother measuring doses anymore. Before I can get the pills into my mouth a new wave of nausea blooms in my stomach and I angle myself above the toilet in time to throw up into the bowl. I cough and spit a few times after throwing up to clear out my throat and mouth. I fall back onto my bottom and rest my back against the wall. I groan again.

I squint my eyes closed against the bright bathroom walls and swallow stale saliva. It's been a while since I've had such a rude awakening, I guess it was only a matter of time. I remember the pills in my hand and stick them in my mouth. I don't bother getting up for water and instead force myself to chew them. The tart flavor is disgusting and my mouth waters to overcome it. I swallow the chewed pills and continue to swallow once they're down, to get the strong taste of medicine and vomit out of my mouth. It doesn't help much.

For a few moments I don't move or open my eyes. I just wait for the pounding in my head to stop. I don't think about anything. I just wait. After a while the pounding lightens a little and I open my eyes. By now they've adjusted so the bright light isn't as shocking. The nausea in my stomach isn't as bad and I try to recall the last time I ate. I realize I haven't eaten in a while, the only thing I had to eat yesterday was a few of Mrs. Hudson's cookies. I just haven't been hungry. My empty stomach settles a little more and I'm thankful for not having eaten. There's less to throw up then.

I decide my best chance at feeling better is to lie down. I pry myself off of the floor and flush the toilet before turning the light off and leaving the bathroom. Darkness floods around me and I am completely blind. I make my way to the bed slowly; once my shin bumps against the mattress I plop myself upon it, gently. I lie on my stomach, my face turned to the side, too tired and timid to crawl under the covers.

I am wasting away. I feel it in my bones. The hollowness corrodes my body and runs through my veins. I breathe lightly against the soft fabric of the bed sheets and my eyes wander around the dark room.

 _I am not wasting away!_ I scold myself. I am fine. Everything is fine. And under control. I am under control. In the morning I'll do research on those numbers for Lestrade and look over the Brody case again. I'll get it sorted out and then I'll call Mary for a nice dinner.

Mary! I suddenly fly up into a sitting position. Oh god, oh god, I forgot about the dinner date with Mary! How could I have forgotten?!

I quickly hop up from the bed and go to the coat rack. I frantically search through my coat pockets for my mobile phone and my heart sinks when I pull it out to discover several texts and a missed call.

Upon returning home yesterday I must have hung up my coat and forgotten about my phone in the pocket. I had gotten distracted. Ill be honest with her. Mostly. Ill explain that I was working with Lestrade, and hadn't noticed my phone going off.

I still can't believe I forgot about going to her house. I imagine she made an excellent dinner only to sit alone. I run my hand down my face and sigh.

"Brilliant." I say under my breath, mocking myself. I take my phone back to the bed with me and drop it on the nightstand as I climb into bed. I pull the covers up my body and stare at the ceiling. With the pain in my head relieved a little I attempt sleep, despite anxiety about Mary creeping into my gut.   
  
  


**_Sherlock_ **

 

Before I go any further with Volkov, I have to see John again. I suppose it isn't a necessity, but his current disposition has the negative effect of worrying me. So I find myself standing on Baker Street, looking across the street toward 221b. The light is pale and getting darker as the sun sets behind the thick clouds.

I ball my hands into fists inside my pockets, willing them to stay warm as I watch my humid breath dance in a fog before my face. I squint my eyes up at the windows exposing our flat to the world. The curtains are drawn, no light shows beyond them. It's evening now, I do not suspect John has anywhere to go at this hour.

I briskly cross the street and come upon our door. My feet root in place, just below the window. I do not touch the door, I keep a safe distance from it, fearing the temptation of opening it might overpower me. I do not look at it, instead I look down the street. I probably shouldn't stand here in this manner but I can't quite get myself to move on.

Once John retires to bed I will go up, but only once I am sure he is asleep. I have to be very careful about this. I should never visit the flat when he's there, but...this time it's different. I might not come back from Estonia. If something should go wrong when I encounter Volkov....

I stand silently below our window and listen intently. The street is nearly deserted now, save for a few passing cars and a couple traversing the opposite side of the street. It is quiet out here, I strain my ears in hopes of hearing any sign of life from within the flat. Perhaps a tv, a radio, or maybe a loud phone call filled with laughter and awkward goodbyes. But there is only silence. That's all there ever is from our flat these days. John never makes a sound.

Before I can reconfirm this assertion a sound breaks through the void. It surprises me and a sense of relief floods through me- for a fraction of a second. Relief that there is audio confirmation that John is alive. But the relief is immediately washed away by a far more uncomfortable emotion. I cannot explain what it is, or why. It floods through my chest as soon as my ears discern what exactly the sound was. It wasn't a tv, or a radio, or John reiterating love-soaked soliloquies to his girlfriend on the phone.

It was a musical note. A low frequency of sound, released delicately into the air. He had struck a cord on my violin. I close my eyes, hoping for more. I am still, quiet. I imagine his small form holding my violin, attempting the correct posture. A part of me feels a peculiar pride in him trying to play. And yet there is tragedy in that. A desolate sadness, although I cannot completely understand why I feel this way. My ears thirst for more but only silence reaches me. I wait several minutes, but no more sound comes from the flat at 221b.

After several moments of silence I finally open my eyes, resolved. I have to return later. Despite the illogical nature of such a visit, despite the threat it poses.

I have to say goodbye.

 

* * *

 

 

Sneaking out of Mycroft's is painfully easy. He's too preoccupied with his work to pay me much notice. I wait until well after midnight, I have to be sure John is asleep. Based on my earlier observations of him, he hasn't been sleeping much. I assume he lies awake for quite some time before succumbing to sleep. So it's almost three am when I finally head toward Baker Street.

I get to the door and quietly let myself in. I know Mrs. Hudson is fast asleep and I pass her door with light feet. I am careful to bypass each step on the stair which yields a squeak. I have those stairs memorized, easily. I get to the door atop the stair case and listen through it before opening it. Dead silence plays through the thin wood. I ease it open and slide my body inside. I close it behind me and begin to explore the flat.

I browse papers upon the desk, familiarizing myself with his current cases. Markus Brody, 38, evident arsenic poisoning. Clearly the widow did it. Her statement has a time discrepancy of thirty minutes, and an obvious lie. She claims she was away and came home to find her husband dead. Impossible given the time frame she stated and where she went. But I'm sure John will figure this out soon enough. I replace the papers just as they were on the desk. I notice a sequence of numbers written on a newspaper and take mental note of them, could be interesting.

After I am satisfied with my analysis of the study area I move on. My violin is in it's stand, but it is tilted a fraction of an inch to the right, the faint dust line along the brace's edge doesn't line up with the neck of the violin. I start toward the kitchen but a sound from the bedroom stops me. A groan, the sound of soft patting, I imagine he's hitting the nightstand, something scrapes along the wood, logically I assume it's his watch. The ruffle of blankets, light creak of the bed frame. I immediately conceal myself beside the bedroom door, pressed against the wall.

I listen while holding my breath. Soft footsteps upon the wooden floor, their rhythm matching John's step perfectly. The flip of a light switch. Light spills out of the bathroom and illuminates the floor at my feet. I keep myself in the shadow. John pulls open a drawer and noisily shuffles through items lying within. I search through my memories until I find the one where I dissected the bathroom on an earlier visit. I opened the drawer to find pill bottles. I remember feeling disappointed in him.

The shuffling stops and a bottle is opened, pills spilled out. But it's the sound that follows which disturbs me. He vomits. The water in the toilet splashes and he coughs and spits. A pained moan escapes him and I close my eyes.

I don't want to be here anymore. I don't want to hear this.

The toilet flushes and the light is turned off. Blind footsteps approach the bed. His body hits the mattress. I hear no more movement from him. Before I can digest any more information I swiftly move to the door and quietly release myself from this place. I make it down the stairs and out of the door into the cold night air. I take in a deep sharp breathe, the icy air pricks my lungs. I feel starved of oxygen and take a moment to catch my breath. My cheeks flush and the chill infects my nose and ears.

"Goodbye, John." I say under my breath and leave 221b Baker Street.


	7. A Second Try

  
  
  
**_Mary_ **

 

Last night was humiliating, and worrying. I wasn't going for a repeat of that. I mindlessly toil with my keys as the ringing of John's phone echoes in my ear. I don't expect him to answer, it's painfully early in the morning. I just thought I might as well leave a voicemail for him before I go in to work.

The sharp ringing abruptly cuts off and Johns tired voice replaces it, "Mary?"

I stand up straighter, a little surprised, "Oh, John. I hope I didn't wake you. I meant to leave a message-"

"Look, I'm sorry." He cuts in, his voice is heavy, "I was working, I got caught up in the case."

I'm silent for a moment, trying not to get upset with him, trying not to think about how it felt to be left alone like that. I take a breath, "John, I didn't know if you were alright- if something might have happened. Or if, maybe, you didn't want to come over. You've been  _distant_ , John." I try to hide the frustration in my voice. But I'm exasperated.

"I- I know. And I am sorry, I've been really involved in some cases with Lestrade-"

"It's not just that, John!" Now my voice clearly shows strain, so I take a breath and correct myself. "I don't want to argue." I plead, "ok, let's just take a step back. Let's not fight over this, the good thing is that you're alright. I was really worried..."

He's quiet for a small fraction of time, then "I know, and, I...I want to do this with you." A small part of my brain detects resignation in his voice, like he's giving up- giving in to me. I pretend this doesn't disappoint me, I particularly pretend this doesn't hurt. Am I really that difficult? Is he unhappy being with me? My heart sinks.

"I want to do this with you too." I say quietly. Another moment of silence.

"Uh, can we try this again? But here this time- I'll cook." He breaks the silence, he seems enthused, trying to compensate.

He doesn't often suggest the flat, so I get hopeful. He does appear to be trying, "Yes, of course!" I brighten up, "That sounds really nice."

"Great! When will it be? I'm free- well, you know."

"Oh, how about this Friday, then?"

"Uh, sure, yeah- Friday. Perfect." He agrees.

I check the time and realize I need to leave for work soon, "Well, I've got to go to work now, John, but I'll see you Friday, ok?"

"Yeah, alright."

"Get some sleep!"

He delivers a delicate laugh, "Bye."

I hang up the call and grab my bag from the table before leaving my house and locking the door behind me. I'm not entirely sure why John's been so absent lately, but I'm hopeful about Friday. This will be good for us, we need to spend some intimate time together, he's felt so far away from me. I clench my teeth against the icy morning cold and I hurry into my car. It's still dark outside but the sun will be rising soon and things will warm a little. But until then autumn air chills in my bones.   
  
  


**_John_ **

 

I drop my phone onto the bed next to me and slide my eyes around the dark room. The blinds are closed but it doesn't matter, since it's still too early for the sun to be up. I must have fallen asleep for almost two hours before Mary's phone call awoke me. I rub my eyes with my hands, they're tired but my mind is up and working now. I roll over onto my side and try to force my mind off, but it's no use. It runs through the plans I've just made with Mary, it replays my earlier episode in the bathroom, it dreads the day to come.

The stale taste of bile is caked on my tongue and the roof of my mouth, my breath is sticky in the back of my throat. My mouth is dry so I swallow several times. Finally I give up on sleep and pull the covers off of me. I ignore the cold and make my way to the bathroom in the dark. I yawn as I flip the light switch. I squint against the bright light and give my eyes some time to adjust. When it isn't painful to open them I search the sink for my toothbrush and brush my teeth, trying to rid my mouth of its horrid taste.

When I'm done in the bathroom I turn the light off again and have to now let my eyes adjust to the dark. I refuse to acknowledge the fact that I have work today, I don't want to face that yet. I banish all thoughts of work from my mind and take a seat in the chair by the window. It faces the bed. I sit here frequently, when I can't sleep, but don't have the energy to do anything else. I'm relieved that my migraine has passed and with it, the nausea. I settle into the chair, resting my arms on the armrests. My eyes lay in the bed and rest there, like I wish my body would, if my mind would let it. In a couple hours I'll have to get ready for my day, but until then, these quiet moments are all mine.

And I'm bored.

I drum my feet on the icy floor and browse the room with my eyes. After what feels like ages of sitting in this chair I stand up and leave the bedroom. Pale morning light creeps through cracks in the curtains covering the windows and paints the floor in thin streaks. I step through the streaks of light and enter the kitchen. I turn the dim light on and it washes over everything.

I don't expect to find much, but to be honest, I'm not entirely hungry. My body has some need to move. I can't bear being so still any longer. So I mindlessly browse the kitchen. I open cabinets, I open the fridge, I close the cabinets, I close the fridge. There isn't much to eat. At all. Old milk, stale cereal, a few cans of soup, Mrs. Hudson must have bought those. From time to time I catch her sneaking food in here.

I check the time. Ugh. Still a couple hours to go. I set my mind on sitting in the living room. I take the seat facing away from the kitchen, and toward the chair Sherlock often sat in. The soft cushion gives way under my weight and I relax against it's back. My eyes fix on the other chair. I don't move.

Time slowly creeps by as I study every detail of the chair before me. Every frayed thread. Every faded spot in the dye. Different hues of red intertwine to craft the style of the chair. It is an old chair, Sherlocks favorite. Well, it was.

I hate this place. But I could never leave. At least, I feel like I couldn't. Mary is supposed to be my way out, but I'm not sure I want the escape. And I just can't understand why. This place haunts me, it drives me mad. And yet I lock myself in here. Willingly. It's sick, really. What's wrong with me?

For the next two hours I don't move. Not until the outside world comes crashing down on me in the form of my alarm set for work going off. And then, just like that, it's back to living.  
  
  


**_Molly_ **

 

I unravel my scarf from my neck and peel off my coat and gloves. Setting them in a heap on my couch, I take a deep breath. Finally home. I go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of cranberry juice.

Sometimes I think there's too much white here. White walls, white furniture, white appliances, white counters. Reminds me of the hospital. I think that's what drew me to this place at the beginning. It just feels so clean and clinical. Somewhere where I can think.

I sip the sour, sweet juice and set the clear glass down on the counter. My phone rings in my coat pocket and I rush over to fish it out. I finally get to it on the fourth ring and answer quickly.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Sweetie." My mother's high voice hits me.

"Mom, hi!" I say cheerfully.

"How are you?" Before I can answer she continues, "I was thinking about coming by this weekend."

"Oh-"

"You know, to check on things. I visited your fathers grave today, and it reminded me of you." I frown.

"Well, everything's fi-"

"And why haven't you called? You remembered your father's birthday last week, didn't you?" She doesn't let me answer, "Well, your brother and I had a nice little dinner and it was all very pleasant."

"Oh- I'm sorry, I was just really-"

"Busy. I know." Her voice is gentle now, "So I'm coming by to see my daughter!" Her voice gets cheery again, "When will you be available, Dear?" I open my mouth to reply but she continues, "I'll come by Saturday."

"Oh, good." I say slowly.

"Now what's going on on your end? Anything exciting?" Her voice gets excited and quiet, like she waiting for gossip.

I laugh, "Nothing really exciting about dead bodies."

"Oh, you work too much, Sweetie." I imagine her waving her hand, shooing away my statement, "You're still young, you know!"

"Yeah." My voice is light. I give a nervous laugh.

"Tell me you at least get out of that morgue on occasion!"

"Yeah, of course." I smile, feeling as though she can see me.

"That's why you're so pale you know, too much time working in that dark basement."

"It's not really a basement, Mom."

"We're going out on Saturday. My treat!"

"You don't have to- I can pay-"

"No, no, no. Don't you worry, Dear. I know you have bills." Her voice is soothing, but its condescending. She doesn't mean to be, so I let it go.

"Uh, it's okay- I mean, I'm okay. You really don't have to worry about that, Mom-"

"Molly, I'm taking you out. It'll be fun, Sweetie!"

"O-okay." I stammer.

"Good! Have you given any thought about transferring into internal medicine? I've always thought that morgue business was a little morbid."

"It's really late, Mom." I say quickly, "I've got work in the morning."

"Of course you do." She laughs, "Okay, then. We'll talk about this on Saturday. Goodnight, Sweetie."

"Love you." I add.

"Yeah, you too." The line clicks and I know she's hung up. I drop my phone back onto the couch and take a deep breath.

After a moment I go to my room and turn on the lamp by my bed. Stepping out of my shoes and pulling my shirt over my head I walk into my bathroom connected to my room. I turn the nozzle in the tub to start the water and pull the shower curtain closed so water doesn't spray the floor. I unbutton my jeans and slide them down my legs, they bunch up at my angles and I have to work my feet out of them, pulling my socks off at the same time.

I judge myself in the mirror. I've always been thin, flat stomach, small frame. I can't decide if it's good or bad. Sometimes I just feel so small. So insignificant. But I'm intelligent enough to understand that's a problem of the mind, not body. I tug the hair band out of my hair and undo the braid I spent too much time putting my hair in this morning. It falls loose into little waves, a result of being in a braid all day. My light brown hair has natural waves, but it never seems to work in my favor. I try not to judge myself in terms of beauty but it's so hard to feel good enough.

I'm not good enough. I'm not intelligent enough. I'm not beautiful enough. I'm not confident enough. I'm awkward, and fragile, and invisible. Even when I do feel confident and strong, something comes along and pulls the right thread to unravel me until I am undone. Usually that something is me. I glare at myself. I deserve better.

Suddenly I'm thinking about Sherlock. I do deserve better. I deserve to not be invisible, or ignored. Right? But that's just his personality, his disposition. He isn't singling me out and ignoring me. He treats me the way he treats others, but I wish he wouldn't. I wish he'd treat me specially. I wish he'd treat me the way he treats John. He's not even in John's life, John thinks he's dead, and he still treats John specially.

I shake my head to loosen these thoughts. I hate being fragile, and I hate dwelling on Sherlock. But his presence is so captivating it overpowers my focus. It blinds me and invades my mind.

I turn away from the mirror and strip off my underwear and bra. Pulling back the curtain I step into the tub. The hot water hits my skin and goosebumps crawl over my arms and legs. I slowly step under the rushing stream of water, steam billows up around me. I make sure to get every part me wet and tilt my head back letting the water bleed into my hair.

The water and steam melt me. My muscles loosen and my body relaxes. My resolve is melted away and I'm crying. I don't notice at first, the tears blend with the falling water. But then it takes a hold of my chest and I can't breathe. I pull my face under the hot water and clench my eyes shut. I grab my stomach and fold into myself, as compact as possible. I am small. I cannot breathe. My chest burns.

I cry until there is nothin left inside of me.


	8. A Change in Plans

  
  
  
**_Lestrade_ **

 

After reading Molly's morgue report, I'm positive Williams' death was nothing short of murder. Of course the note found in his stomach is a bit of an alarm. It certainly suggests something dubious is going on. The only problem is, Williams was a perfect citizen. Absolutely clean record. No enemies from what we could gather. He worked in a shipping yard along the river, had a great relationship with all of his coworkers and was described as a pleasant fellow. He was a perfectly likable, healthy man. That is until he turned up dead in a back alley near the shipping yards. There's clearly something missing here, that we just can't see. Yet.

I try to think like Sherlock. I never admit that to anyone, of course. But when a case comes along that, if he were here, I'd go to him for help on, I try to compensate for his absence. Of course I can't actually do whatever it is that he did, but I try. I don't believe he was a fake. I've seen him in action too any times to know better. Whatever that business with Moriarty was about, I will get to the bottom of it. But that doesn't change the fact that he's gone. And, as much as we try to deny it, we still need him.

I rub my eyes and lean back in my office chair. It's been a long day at Scotland Yard and it's looking like it's going to be a long night as well. I pull open my desk drawer and pull out the bag of chips I have stashed in there. I pull open the bag and it crinkles loudly. I always think better once I've eaten. I start munching on the salty snack and flip open the case folder to review again.

I don't think we'll get very far until we find out what those numbers from the paper found in the victims stomach mean. But with all the other cases going on it'll be awhile before the number analyst can get back to us, so my only hope for now is John. Despite how the others feel, I'm patient with him. He has proven himself to be useful, but I know it's hard on him in ways that the others couldn't understand. Sherlock was my friend too. He was an ass, but he was my friend. It wasn't just about needing his help, and I think he knew that. So I'm patient with John.

John hasn't called with any updates yet, so here I am reviewing case files and pretending to be busy. I lean back and put my feet on my desk, one crossed over the other. For now, I'm just going to enjoy these chips and not think about murders.

Sally leans around the corner of my door frame and raps her knuckles briefly on the open door. Her long curly hair falls to the side.

"What." I say through a mouthful of chips.

"I'm heading to Maria Vasquez' house, you wanna talk to her?" She points with her thumb behind her.

I swallow the food in my mouth, "Yeah, give me a minute."

She nods and walks away. I close the bag of chips and stuff it back into my drawer, then I quickly wipe any crumbs from my lips. I grab my coat from the back of my chair and head for the exit. Sally is already at the curb hailing a cab. She tells the driver the address quickly through the open passenger window and we climb into the back. The taxi has a leathery smell to it making me crinkle my nose. Smells like a new car. I settle into the seat and Sally relaxes next to me. We don't talk much during the ride, we're both comfortable with the silence.

Finally the cab comes to a stop outside a quaint one story house. I ask the driver to wait for us and quickly shuffle my pockets for money to pay him as we climb out of the cab. We step out onto the small cracked sidewalk lining the pleasant but run-down suburb. The yard is well kept but the potted plants freckling the front porch are wilting. Grass can go longer without immediate care. I don't have to imagine why Maria isn't caring for the plants. The small house is old, white paint chipping along the wooden porch. The stone steps lead up to a small white door with an oval window at its center. A white lace curtain closes the window from the world on the other side. The porch creaks with our heavy steps and I immediately tighten my body.

Sally pushes on the doorbell but no sound erupts from inside the house. She pushes again, harder this time. After a second's wait I knock on the glass. We stand patiently. A long moment passes and I contemplate turning back. Then sounds rustle from behind the door and the curtain is pulled back to reveal large, timid brown eyes. The curtain is dropped back and the door clicks open. It creaks as she pulls it open.

Maria Vasquez, 41, Sam Williams' live-in girlfriend of five years. Her frame is thin, she stands at just over five feet. Thick black hair cascades down her shoulders. Her floral dress seems morbidly happy.

"Miss Vasquez, how are you?" I offer her my hand, she takes it gently. We've spoken with her just a few days ago, she knows us well and agreed to our visit today. She lets us inside and closes the door quietly, then locks it. I walk down the familiar hallway lined with framed photos capturing blissful moments. She and Sam on vacation in the States, they stand happily at the Santa Cruz boardwalk, the wind pulling at her dark hair, the sun igniting Sam's blonde hair. The two enjoying Christmas together, Sam holding a plate of food, a surprised smile on his wide face, Maria kissing his cheek, her own face flushed and eyes bright. I can imagine how haunting these pictures may be to Maria now, telling happy stories to an empty house. And I can feel that emptiness in the air. It's always lurking somewhere, on every case I've worked. It's why I do this job in the first place. Someone needs to help these people.

We enter the living room and she gestures for us to sit on the small brown sofa. The cushions cave under our weight, a colorful quilt is sprawled along the back of the couch. Maria sits in the wicker chair facing us, a coffee table rests between us.

"I jus' want to know what happen to Sam." She pleads, a thick Spanish accent hanging on her words. Her tanned skin is red around her eyes, her face seems to sag. It comes from crying too much, holding the pain of loss. I can see the hurt in her eyes, that silent plea begging the question 'why?'. Why Sam? I try not to get close to the loved ones of the lost, but there is one thing we have in common. We want to know why too.

"We're doing our best to find out who did this. And you can help us, can you tell us anything about Sam that might explain why someone would hurt him? Any arguments, disagreements, anything at all?" She shakes her head slowly while I talk, her eyes wide. She folds her hands into her lap, her posture is rigid.

"No, no, he was good man. He never fought with nobody." She's says sternly.

"What about any odd behavior from him recently?" Sally cuts in.

Maria reflects on this, then starts to shake her head again, her black hair falling in messy waves around her face, but then she opens her mouth to speak, "He jus'..." she shrugs her shoulders with pursed lips in concentration, "quiet- very quiet. Like he don' want to talk. He don' talk as much with me." She gestures toward her chest, "Jus' a couple days before he go missing. He get really quiet. I can tell he was worried about something but he don' say. I figure, is something at work. Sometimes they get bad shipments. He get a little-" she tries to find the right word, "distant, you know? And then he okay. Like nothing happen." Sally nods to herself.

"Did he do that often?" I ask.

Maria shrugs her shoulders, "Sometime," she horizontally wobbles her hand in the air, "not very often. I think it mostly at beginning of month. I don' know why..." her voice grows lighter and her eyes look heavy.

"You can't think of any reason he might do that? Especially at the beginning of each month?" I press her further.

She shakes her head sadly. This is the second time we've questioned her and I don't think we'll get any further with her today. I can see her fragility delicately held in check, her strength showing in her posture, her weakness showing in her eyes.

"You tell me when you know anything?" She speaks up.

"Yes, absolutely." Sally nods.

"I've got my best inspectors on this, Maria. We're going to find the person who did this." I comfort her. She gives a weak nod. I glance at Sally, waiting for her to ask any remaining questions she may have.

"We have found something in Sam's stomach." She starts slowly.

"He must have swallowed it before he died, it was a small film canister." I finish. Maria furrows her brows in confusion.

"Like from a disposable camera?" I try again. She still looks confused, and worried.

"Why he do this?" She asks.

"We were hoping you might have an idea?" I ask.

"I don' know..." she seems defeated.

"Thank you, Maria. You've really helped." I tell her as I take her hand and stand. Her hand is small and cold in mine. She looks up at me with watery eyes. Sally stands next to me.

"We'll call you as soon as we have any more information for you." Sally reassures her and she stands to lead us out.

"Okay." Maria replies, "Thank you." She walks us down the hallway and opens the door for us. I nod goodbye to her as I step outside, Sally gently rests her hand on the smaller woman's shoulder then walks out with me. The door closes and the lock clicks behind us as we walk down the paved pathway to the sidewalk. We agreed earlier not to mention the paper, but asking about the canister was worth a shot.

"Wonder what happens at the beginning of the month." Sally ponders as she opens the cab door.

"Yeah." I agree as we get into the cab, "Thanks for waiting." I say to the cabby and he pulls away from the curb, taking us back to Scotland Yard.   
  
  
  


**_Mycroft_ **   
  


Patience is a necessity when dealing with Sherlock. I remind myself of this before each encounter with him. But my patience grows rather thin, and now it is tinkering on extinction as I wait for his arrival. I've seated myself within a study chair in the room which I have procured him. He really ought to stay in more. It's a perfectly suitable living arrangement, given the circumstances of his current life style. And it's incredibly toilsome governing someone while they travel about, acting on impractical whim. My dear brother has always been far too whimsical.

I adjust my suit jacket around my midsection and straighten my posture, I do suspect he will be arriving soon, I've had him followed. It is midday and he's been out since last night. He last visited John a while ago, although he's sure I am oblivious to his late night exits. Since then he's been going to less obvious places. Once he returns I shall have a pleasant little talk with him about Volkov. Upon further retrospection I somewhat regret delivering the file to him. I'm sure he would have procured the data himself in time, but I shouldn't have made it easier. There is still much of which he is rather blissfully unaware, and I will not be responsible for putting him in danger. As much as he detests the concept, he does still need me to look after him.

Just down the hall I detect the faintest of sounds. Knowing this house very well, I am able to interpret it as, in fact, a lock being released. So he has finally returned. I rest my hands upon the arms of the chair and wait patiently. The door clicks open, slowly. He steps over the threshold, if he is surprised by my presence, he shows no sign of it.

"Hello, Mycroft. I believe I'm safe in assuming you're not here to bid me good morning." He states calmly while unraveling his scarf from his neck.

"Nice of you to return, I was beginning to worry." I respond slowly. He raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.

"New suit?" He analyses me.

"New business." I stand before him. "There'll be no need to go to Estonia."

This time his brows furrow, "And why should I not?"

"It is unnecessary, things have changed greatly in this past week. The situation with Volkov has been resolved."

His interest peeks, yet he seems somewhat annoyed, "Do you have him? Where?"

I slide my hands into my pockets and walk around him, "Safe. For now. He seemed set on returning to England. We caught sight of him before he landed. This morning."

"Why would he return?" This question seems more for him than me. His eyes set on no particular object, yet they focus intently.

"I wouldn't worry about it, brother. He's no longer of your concern."

He turns to me, "I want to see him."

"I'm afraid I can't do that-"

"Oh, don't be difficult, it is such a waste with me." He warns me with annoyance pulling at his features.

"You're right. It is such a waste with you." I respond slowly and purposefully. My mocking apparently strikes him and he holds a grimace. "You can't expect to get everything you desire, Sherlock. He is being handled, he is no longer of any threat to anybody." I hang the last word in the air between us and he turns away from me. He pulls off his long coat and searches his pocket for his phone.

"You are free to rejoin society, dear brother. Although I'm not sure it's the wisest course of action at this point."

He turns to look at me and scoffs, "Lestrade already requires my assistance. Can't imagine how they've gotten on this long without me." He turns away from me and retrieves his phone. He hesitates, then adds, "I am needed."

"John has Mary, now." I remind him.

He looks at me sharply, "I wasn't talking about John." He spits the words out. The slightest hint of defense showing in his eyes.

"Weren't you?" I challenge him. We both know he was, far more than Lestrade or Scotland Yard, and a harsh silence settles between us. He slides back into his coat, apparently set on leaving again.

"Careful where you wander off to now, brother. You do still have enemies."

"Don't bother worrying, the act doesn't suit you." He walks past me and exits the room, leaving me staring at the spot he once stood.

"I do worry." I say to the empty room. More than he knows.   
  
  


**_Sherlock_ **

 

I've spent more than a week preparing for the trip to Estonia. Obtaining access to appropriate land and water travel, as flying would be too obvious. Developing the most effective fictitious persona to carry with me. And Volkov simply decides to return to England instead?

And so carelessly as well. Mycroft saw him coming before his feet even touched British soil. Why would he make such a mistake?

I walk quickly down the street, my body pushed by my frustration. Now I'm supposed to acclimate to open society again?

I remind myself that this is exactly what I've been waiting for for almost two years. To return to my place among the people in my life. To return to my work. And yet, it feels inadequate, it feels insufficient. As though there is a vital piece missing. I didn't imagine it would be this easy. Mycroft got to Volkov first. I try to ignore the resentment building inside. He was going to be mine. And now he's Mycroft's. It doesn't seem fair, I sacrificed so much because of him. Because of Moriarty.

I shove my hands into my pockets and brush past couples on the sidewalk. People walk far too slowly. I haven't the patience to endure others. I brush past them quickly, giving them no notice. There's clearly something Mycroft isn't telling me. If he has the sniper, then it's time for me to reveal my state of being alive and get back to work as soon as possible. However, whatever Mycroft is hiding may require my presence to remain hidden. Perhaps there was more to his warning about not returning to society just yet. He had said I still have enemies. But that is nothing new.

So I won't reveal myself yet. There's more investigating to be done. But, there is one person for which I will expose myself. It's been too long. And he may be of use to me. Although unlikely. I have to time this just right, however. There are too many variables to consider. If I do this, I must do it perfectly. He is my best friend, after all.

I come to a stop outside St. Bartholomew Hospital and turn down the narrow ally. I've already got my phone out and am texting Molly before I even reach the designated door. I had planned on visiting her this evening before leaving for Estonia, but supposedly that's become a somewhat pointless endeavor. Nonetheless, I can still yield some benefit out of visiting her.


	9. The Date

  
  
  
**_John_**    
  


Suddenly it's Friday. I don't know where the week has gone, it seems to have slipped by without my notice. Time is sneaky like that sometimes. It does this funny little trick where it changes and leaves you behind. I feel like that sometimes, like I'm left behind. Stuck. And things change so quickly around me. But I try not to dwell on that. So it's Friday. Which means tonight's the date with Mary. And I can't mess this up, this time.

And to be honest, I am actually a bit excited. Mary hasn't given up on me, despite having enough cause to do so. And this could always lead to something more, I'm just not entirely sure what that "something" is yet. But for tonight, I'm not going to worry about that. Tonight, it's just going to be about enjoying Mary. Of course, I may have to impress her a bit.

I have a nice dinner planned. I'll have to cook, which has me slightly nervous. But I know she'll appreciate the effort. So, after taking a very thorough shower and getting dressed I inspect the kitchen. I remember from my earlier scrutiny that the kitchen is rather lacking in the food department, so it doesn't take long before I have to accept the fact that unless Mary wants canned soup, which I doubt, I'll have to go shopping. I've dressed modestly, simple jeans and striped jumper, in case I make a mess while cooking, but I look nice enough to go out. With new motivation I grab my keys off of the counter and slide my feet into my shoes by the door. I grab my coat off the rack and slip it on as I descend the stairs.

"Are you going out, Dear?" Mrs. Hudson's voice nearly causes me to jump when I reach the bottom step. I turn quickly and smile at her. She's leaning out of her parted door, her short hair barely dried from the shower.

"Uh, yeah. Just to the market." I zip up my coat.

"When might you be back?"

"Soon, I won't be long."

"Good, you really ought to stock up, dear. It's a bit empty, your kitchen." A sad look shows on her face.

"Ah, yes, of course." I nod. She smiles sweetly at me before closing her door leaving me alone in the hall. I make my exit and inhale sharply against the icy autumn air.

The rubber soles of my shoes beat against the cement lightly. My breath fumes from my lips. My hair bows to the breeze. I've come to enjoy these moments. Quiet walks to the market. They give me time to think. I quicken my pace and round the corner, avoiding people along the sidewalk. The store is fairly close to the flat so I don't mind the walk, and it passes rather quickly.

I arrive at the store and begin browsing aimlessly through the isles. It occurs to me that I haven't actually figured out what I will cook for dinner this evening, and I hadn't asked Mary what she might like. But I know I have to make something spectacular to make up for forgetting our last dinner. Problem is, I haven't any clue what I should make, or for that matter, how to make it. I like to pretend my culinary knowledge is something to be proud of, but, in truth, it isn't very vast. It's quiet limited in fact.

So I stand mindlessly in the produce isle, my eyes trailing over the many options. Should I make a salad? Does Mary even like salads? What if by making a salad she thinks I'm implying she ought to eat healthier? Or worse, that she needs to lose weight?

I roll my eyes. It can't be this complicated. Maybe I'll make salad as a side, and something more filling as the main course. That's what people normally do, isn't it? God, it's been so long since I've had a normal meal. Life since Sherlock left has consisted of canned soup, take-out, and more canned soup. Which I made by heating it up in the microwave. I can't remember the last time I turned the stove on. I try to ignore the nerves chewing away at my stomach.

Why did I suggest this- what was I thinking? I sigh.

Fine, alright, I'll just make this simple. Salad and steak. I know how to make those two items at least and if she doesn't like them we can always order out. We often do anyway.

I select a head of lettuce, some tomatoes, cucumbers, vinaigrette dressing. I pile these items up in my hand basket, taking my time. What else goes in a salad? I search the rows of vegetables, unsure. After some amount of time passes I decide I should select some steak.

With the food tucked in my basket it occurs to me wine would also be a good option so I spend some time picking out a nice bottle. Soon I'm checking out, not using the self-service machine of course. I know I have money on my card so I waste no time worrying about it as I have the cashier ring up all my groceries. I know Mrs. Hudson is hoping I'll buy more food for the flat but I don't feel the energy for a large shopping trip today, so I leave with only the items reserved for tonight's dinner.

I hail a cab, not wanting to carry the bags home. Once I make it to the flat, I find the door locked. Mrs. Hudson must have gone out. I set one of the bags upon the step and shuffle my pocket for the key. I wiggle the small key into the lock and push the door open as I pick the bag up. Upstairs I lay all the items out on the counter. I suppose it's too early to begin cooking just yet, I just hope I've made a good decision on what to make.

I check my wristwatch for the time and frown when I see that I still have several hours until Mary gets off work. A small part of me is actually disappointed that I don't have work today. Having nothing to do for several hours at a time leaves for too much time to myself. Too much time for my thoughts to speak to me through the quiet. Suddenly I remember the case files blanketing the study, so I put the food in the fridge and take a seat at the desk. I had promised Lestrade I would look into these cases for him and help if I can. So I open the report he gave me on Mr. Brody and read through the statements again.

I analyze the morgue report, and reread the witness testimonies the investigators procured. Time crawls slowly on as I drag my eyes over every detail of Brody's life and death. I try to work out the sequence of events leading to his death, I imagine it in my mind. Wife comes home at approximately 5p.m. to find her husband dead on the bedroom floor. No evidence of a struggle. No evidence of a break-in. Nothing unusual, besides the dead body next to the bed of course. Molly reports the cause of death as acute poisoning, so suicide is an obvious option. The wife is also a suspect. But her alibi checks out, she attended a matinee theatre performance with one of her close friends. A copy of the ticket stubs is stabled to the report.

Brody's time of death is estimated around 4 p.m.. The show began at 2 p.m.. The only thing that stands out to me is a minor discrepancy of time in the wife's statement. The show should have ended at 4p.m., just as Brody died. Of course Mrs. Brody couldn't have been home by then. However, her friend claims to have left Mrs. Brody at the theatre shortly after 4, and had said she saw Mrs. Brody getting into a cab to go home. But the emergency call wasn't placed by Mrs. Brody until 5:05p.m. and the cab ride home should not have taken more than 20 minutes; she would have been home around 4:30. Mrs. Brody said she had gone directly home after the show, so why is there roughly a thirty minute time difference between when she should have arrived home and when she made the emergency call?

Of course, considering when Mr. Brody had died, the evidence of Mrs. Brody's displacement at the time eliminated her as a suspect, but maybe it shouldn't have. The missing time doesn't prove any guilt, obviously, but it is questionable. I check the time again, two more hours until Mary gets off work. I sigh.

I pull my phone from my pocket to text Lestrade. I'm sure they must have noticed the time delay themselves, but I'll mention it just to be sure. And to feel, at least to some, if not mediocre, degree, helpful.

 

_Brody case. The wife is lying, or at the least leaving something out. Wife waited thirty minutes before calling ambulance? Play ended at 4pm, ride home should be less than 20 mins. Call at 5:05 pm. Not sure if this is helpful, I'm sure you noticed._

_JW_

 

I press send and drop my phone onto the desk next to me. I rest my head in my hands; not exactly a genius revelation. Nothing compared to what Sherlock might already have deduced by now. I take a deep breath and look over the crime scene photos again. Brody was a small man, thin and short. His modest frame lies next to the foot of his bed. Feet to the side of the bed, facing the headboard. His legs and arms are straight down, his head turned to the side, looking away from the bed.

It does seem odd that he should fall into such a composed position. Seems too calm, his arms tucked nicely by his sides, legs straight and closed. I analyze the image closer, searching for anything peculiar. I flip through the collection of photographs, close-ups and full body shots. My eyes catch something in one of the close-up shots showing his feet. He's dressed in black trousers and his feet bear black dress shoes. He had been called in to work that evening, so he must be dressed nicely for that. Mrs Brody said it wasn't unusual for him to be called to the office on a Saturday. His attire isn't what disturbs me.

There's something about the man's shoes that isn't quite right. An odd feeling tugs at my chest, a signal blaring somewhere deep in my consciousness. I squint at the image, looking closely. The soles are clean, the shoes are polished, which isn't unusual with office jobs. I keep looking.

I almost jump out of my chair from excitement when I realize what it is. The laces! It's all in the laces! The ends of the laces come out on top of the knot, rather than under. They come out against Brody's ankles, which wouldn't be the case if they were tied from his angle.  _Someone else tied his shoes!_

Someone facing Brody tied his laces, and the dominant lace in each knot is the left lace. The tyer was most likely left handed. Now I'm standing. I search through the statement report filled out for Mrs. Brody. She said she left before her husband had been called out to work, he wasn't dressed when she left. So she couldn't have done it for him before leaving. I look at the statements given by Brody's coworkers. He wasn't expected to arrive at work until 5 p.m.. So he hadn't yet gone to work before he died.

I shuffle through the papers until I find the profile on Brody. Not only does the angle suggest he didn't tie his shoes, he's right handed. If he hadn't tied his shoes, logically he didn't put them on. Why would someone bother putting his shoes on for him? He must have been dressed after he was already dead. So why would the murderer dress him after poisoning him? And why poisoning? To make it appear as though he committed suicide? Before going to work?

My brows furrow in concentration. What am I missing? I pick up the other photos to look through when the doorbell rings. I freeze. It rings again and I check my watch.

 _Damn_. Time has passed too quickly, that must be Mary at the door. I had lost track of time. I immediately look toward the kitchen. The food! I haven't even started cooking. I groan and hurry down the steps to answer the door. I pull it open and Mary's bright eyes greet me, her cheeks and nose flushed from the cold, her lips pulled into a graceful smile.

"John!"

"Mary! Hi!" I usher her in. She pulls her cap off of her head, her hair falls helplessly in all directions.

"Thought for a moment you weren't home." She laughs.

"Yeah, sorry, I was busy." I motion toward the stairs, allowing her to walk first. Her scent trails down the stairs behind her. Vanilla. I enjoy her perfume as we climb the stairs. When we reach the top I brush past her to clean up the papers on the desk. I tuck the photos into the file.

"So what have you planned?" She asks cheerfully and tugs her gloves off her hands, stuffing them into her pockets.

"Oh-uh, I've got stuff for dinner. I was going to cook," a small smile slides across her lips, I can tell she's trying not to laugh, "before you arrived, but..." now she's smiling broadly. I can't help it, I laugh. It does sound a little funny.

"That's really sweet, John." She says kindly.

"Uh, here." I quickly step behind her and help her slide off her coat. I hang it on the coat rack for her. Her maroon dress fits her body elegantly, tracing every curve and stopping just short of her knees. It hugs her body but falls loose at her thighs. Her hair cascades around her shoulders in messy waves.

"Thanks." She tucks loose strands of hair behind her ears.

"If you just wait- just a short while- and I promise I'll have a fantastic dinner made." I say enthusiastically.

She laughs, "Can I help?"

"I just figured I owed you for-"

"-Forgetting?" She makes a playful grimace.

I exhale, "Yeah."

"Don't worry. I can see you're trying." She waves it off. "I'll help." She walks into the kitchen and I follow. I open the fridge and pull out the steaks and salad ingredients.

"Steaks and salad, yeah?" She raises her eyebrows.

I look sadly at my food choices. A mature giggle crawls through her lips.

"Alright." She says brightly, "Sounds great. Um, you start the salad and I'll start the steaks." She grabs the steak packages and sets them next to the stove. I nod and pull out a large bowl from the cabinet. I lay the lettuce out and select a knife from the drawer to cut it. She's opening and closing cabinets behind me until she finds a pan to cook the steaks in.

"Aha, found you." She exclaims in triumph. I laugh as I cut the lettuce.

"Do you like vinaigrette dressing?" I question her casually, hoping she says yes.

"Sure." I hear her tear through the meat packages and turn the stove on.

"Good!" I cut up the cucumbers next, "Because that's all I have." I flash her an awkward smile when I turn around. She turns to me and bites her lip.

"Where are your plates?" She asks reluctantly. I point with the knife to the cabinet just to her left and she pulls out two plates. I finish chopping the cucumbers.

"Um..." She says slowly, "seasonings?" She smiles bashfully.

"Oh, uh. Should be in there." I point to the cabinet by the fridge. "But..." she opens the cabinet to find it nearly empty, "might not be much...in there." I say slowly. Her shoulders slump and she turns to face me.

"Right." She's trying to fight a smile on her lips. "Well, I guess we'll keep it simple." She pulls out the salt and pepper and seasons the steaks before setting them on the pan.

"Sounds good." I try not to be embarrassed. I really didn't prepare for this. At all. Mrs. Hudson was right, I should have stocked up. When we're done with the food we set the table and sit facing each other. I've pulled out the wine and two wine glasses and pour each of us a glass. The meal is simple, but still pleasant. Made more enjoyable by the company rather than the food itself.

"Steaks are rather bland." Mary breaks the silence.

I chuckle, "Just a little, yeah."

Her eyes gleam and she smiles before taking a sip of wine. We finish dinner and clean our plates in the sink, I wash and she dries. I laugh to myself; this is the most attention this kitchen has gotten in a really long time. I usually avoid the effort of cooking all together but Mary's presence makes it worth while.

"Would you like to watch some tele?" I ask as I stuff the plates back into the cabinet.

"Yeah." She dries her hands, "Have you got any good movies?"

I pause a moment to think, "Not really." She laughs and I grab the remote as she sits on the couch. It's dark outside so I click the lamp on next to the desk before turning the television on. The kitchen light had kept the dark at bay but here in the living room, the light is dimmed. I sit next to her, letting our bodies touch. I flip through the channels aimlessly, trying not to focus on the warmth of her skin against me.

"Ooh," she taps my arm, "that one." She eyes the television screen. "It's scary." She looks at me playfully, a grin on her lips. I pick the movie.

"Oh, but you've got to turn the light off, the kitchen one, I mean." She adds excitedly.

"Yeah, okay." I hop up and flip the kitchen light off then sit next to her again. The setting in the movie is dark and ominous, Mary settles into my side, fitting against my body. I automatically wrap my arm around her.

"I'm really happy you decided to do this." She says quietly, watching the screen. The light from the television reflects in her eyes, swimming in her irises. I watch her for a moment, waiting for her to continue speaking. But she doesn't. She doesn't look at me or move.

"Me too." I respond finally, still watching her face. She looks at me with wide eyes. Kind eyes.

"I worry about you." Her brows knit together just slightly. I look away. I look at the television screen but I'm not watching the movie. "Sometimes I feel like you're not here." Her voice is quiet. I don't know what to say. So I don't say anything at all.

"I just mean," she tries again, taking a steady breath, "I hope you're okay."

"Of course I'm okay." I sooth her. I look at her but I don't look at her eyes. I feel like she's too close, I'm afraid she might see more than I want her to if I look at her eyes. She sits up straighter and rests her hand upon my chest.

"Well, I just want you to know, whatever it is, I'm here." The dim golden light from the lamp paints her face and the tv light tangles in her hair. "You don't have to tell me what's going on, and I get it- if it's about...him." She adds. She's intelligent, and perceptive. Makes it difficult to lie to her.

"No, nothing's going on." I try to sound casual. It sounds a little forced, "I promise-I'm fine." The look on her face says she knows better. I try a new approach, "Lestrade's got me working on some cases, and it's-it's just...been awhile." She listens to me patiently.

"It's different without him, isn't it?" She asks, more of a statement than a question. I instinctively look away.

"Yeah, buts it's- I'm fine." I force myself to look at her. Her pupils are dilated in the dark, absorbing me. She cares too much, I try to be more open, "I just need to adjust. I really am okay." I reiterate this point to the both of us, but neither of us are fooled.

She doesn't say anything, doesn't try to argue or question it further. I watch her lips, the gentle slopes illuminated by the faint light. Before I give myself a chance to think about it I lean forward and press my lips against hers. She takes me in, her hand sliding up my chest onto my neck. She cradles my jaw with her fingers.

Eyes closed, just feeling. Just lips, and fingers, and her hair tickling my cheek. Our lips are warm against each other, I feel her lean into me. I wrap my arm around her waist, it traces her curves, feeling her canvas. I can't let myself think about this. This is how it should be. I lean forward with her pull. This is what I should want. Her hair fans out around her as her head rests upon the couch. I should be happy. The light floods her skin, lifting over each curve of her neck and face.

Her hand holds the back of my neck, her other hand lifts my shirt. She grazes my skin with her fingertips. Our lips part to breathe. Our breath tangles, hot and sticky. This is what I want, I say to myself, but something about it feels empty. Insufficient.

She slides my shirt over my shoulders, I lift up so she can pull it over my head. I lean down again, pressing against her. Her chest moves with her breathing. I kiss her jaw, then her neck. She lifts her chin up, opening herself to my lips. I trace her neck and shoulder with my lips and slide her dress strap down her arm.

I can taste the salt on her skin and smell her perfume. Vanilla invades my mouth and nose, it infects my lungs. But there's another scent that rips through my chest. It hits me like a truck. The couch smells like Sherlock. I pull away from it, kissing her chest instead. I can't look at her. I clench my eyes shut, chasing away the image of my friend. I used to find him sleeping on this couch, he'd stay up all night, mind racing, and forget to go to bed. He'd fall asleep here. I shake these memories away, I need to be in the now. I don't have time for these ghosts.

I feel Mary's fingers in my hair and around my waist. I slide my hand under her back and lift her up with me, I just needed more space between me and the couch, even if just for a moment. But I know I couldn't bring her to the bed, to Sherlock's bed. I try to force my mind to turn off. I chase my thoughts away, back into the dark corners they crawl out of. My finger fumble with her dress strap as I pull it down, her dress crinkles around her waste. She lifts up as I pull it down her legs and toss it aside. She tugs off my pants and pushes them onto the floor.

I follow her down, lying on her. No thoughts. No words. Just breathing, and skin, and movements, and tugging at bra straps, and fingers in hair. Just dancing lips, and brushing curves, and closed eyes, and a scary movie playing in the background. Just rising chests, and swaying hips, and sticky heat, and vanilla skin, and- the scent of Sherlock's shampoo. Or maybe it was the deodorant he used. Or his skin.

I clench my eyes and bite my tongue. No thoughts. No thoughts. No thoughts.


	10. Perhaps Another Time

  
  
  
**_Sherlock_ **   
  


My heart is pounding; accelerated heart rate. My palms are moist. An excessive release of epinephrine in my sympathetic nervousness system. I'm experiencing adrenaline. I really didn't think it would effect me to such a degree. It is the natural course of things; what I must do given my new situation. But I'm nervous. I remain calm and poised on the outside, as always. But inside there is a war raging.

Is it too soon? Too late? How will he react? I've watched him drown in the sea I created for two years. And after all this time, can I really pull him out? Or will I collect at his base like a heavy rock and pull him deeper under water, to depths not even I can reach?

I slide off my ball cap, setting my curls free upon my forehead. I roll it up and slide it into my coat pocket. I dressed nice for this. Black pants, purple button-up shirt, black coat, dark grey scarf. Seemed appropriate. I wanted to look like myself.

Gold light bleeds over the wet pavement and the dark door leading to 221B. The sun has fallen behind clouds long ago and is set by now. Vacant cars litter the sides of Baker Street and water droplets collect on their cold steel. Small worlds of light reflect off of the beads of water and the puddles in the gutter. The cold air pulls the breath from my lungs in a fog, hot and sticky.

I've waited long enough. I decided to wait until Friday evening, knowing John was not scheduled to work today. I glance up at the window above the door. Dim light fights it's way past the edge of the drawn curtains. I imagine I'll find him sitting at the study, the small lamp turned on. Or perhaps watching television.

I open the door and slowly step inside. There is silence behind Mrs. Hudson's door. She'll be heading to bed around now. Ascending the stairs I catch a faint scent. Something sweet, but too faint to discern. At the door I stop. I ignore the excitement in my chest and wrap my fingers around the cold knob. I listen through the thin wood of the door, my ear pressed delicately against the wood.

I hear the TV. Sounds like an old horror movie; Frankenstein? I listen for any more sounds. Just the TV. My hand begins to turn the knob, it creaks a little. But I hear something that makes me stop. Voices. But these voices don't match the movie. One is John, the low gentle tones of his voice immediately recognizable. The second is lighter, fainter. A woman's. I release the knob.

Mary is here? I listen further. The talking has stopped. Maybe I could still burst in. They couldn't possibly be doing anything important and Mary knowing I'm alive has little affect on me. I only wish to keep more incidental people in the dark, for now. Mary is hardly of any consequence to me. I continue listening, but instead of talking I hear a release of breath. A sigh. A delicate moan. I step back from the door.

Oh no. Not now. I take another step back. I'm well aware they've had sex before but it's always been at Mary's house. He's never brought her back here. Not like this. What does that mean? And the sounds are from the living room. They're doing this on  _my_  couch? At least it isn't my bed. I blink away the image. I slowly turn away from the door. I look down the dark steps, not much light to illuminate the path.

Why would he do this? What's the point? She can't really help him. She's intelligent but she isnt clever. She doesn't understand him, does she? Has he moved on? I know the pain he lives in, but is Mary the cure? How could she make him happy? This was supposed to be my night. I was finally, after all this time, going to get my friend back. And now Mary has him. She's just a distraction! He has cases to work on and...why do I care? I stuff my hands into my pockets and descend the stairs. My heart rate normal, the excitement gone. Replaced by something somewhat unfamiliar but definable.

Disappointment.

I approach the door and let myself outside, swimming in the cold once again. I tug the cap out of my pocket and unfold it. I sit on my head. I don't know why I bothered bringing it, force of habit I suppose. I slide my hands back into my pockets and walk away from 221B.

 _Perhaps another time, then_. I think up to John.   
  
  
  


**_Molly_ **   
  


I open my eyes to my ceiling. I drag the covers up to my chin, to fight back the cold. Turning to my side I pull my knees to my chest. I fold myself up, clinging to my warmth. Loud vibrations erupt from the bedside table behind me and I turn around to quickly grab my phone. I don't bother looking at the caller ID before answering the call.

"Hello?"

"Sweetheart! Are you home?"

I immediately sit up, "Mom."

"Yes, of course! Who else? Don't tell me you forgot, Molly." Her voice is way too bright for me right now. I throw the covers off of me and rush to the bathroom. Is she already here? I check the time, I didn't sleep in too late. It's just before 12.

"No, Mom. I just-"

"I'll be there soon, sweetie. I've just got a cab."

I close my eyes in defeat, "Great! Can't wait to see you." I force cheerfulness into my voice. How soon is 'soon'? I calculate how quickly I can shower.

"The train ride here was just awful! The gentleman next to me would  _not_  stop arguing on his mobile- I don't know what about. I couldn't get a moments peace!" She says incredulously. "It was too early for that sort of thing."

"You didn't have to leave so early." I add lightly, shielding nervousness.

"And take away time from us? Honestly, Dear."

I pull the phone away from my ear and shake it in frustration. I put it back to my ear, "Right. How soon did you say you would be here?"

"Oh, just a few quick minutes!" Her voice is excited.

I take a deep breath, "Okay, I'll see you in a bit." I bite my lip and scrutinize my messy appearance in the mirror.

"Yup! See you soon, Sweetie." The call ends and I set my phone on the bathroom counter. I let out a long sigh.

I peel off my clothes and turn the shower water on. I quickly clean and dry off. I pull on jeans and a white sweater. Just as I start to yank a brush through my wet hair, the door bell rings. I pause and listen, silently hoping it wasn't real. The bell rings again. I drop my brush onto the counter and pull my hair back into a pony tail. I quickly descend the stairs and pause at the door. I take a deep breath.The third ring makes me jump and I quickly pull open the door.

"Finally!" My mother's short, broad frame brushes past me. Her face is cheery, her cheeks red. She steps into my hall and looks around."I was afraid you weren't going to answer."

I close the door and she turns to me, her arms outspread, "Molly, Dear." Her large green eyes squint as she smiles and pulls me into her.

"Hi, Mom." I say over her shoulder, my breath pushing past her chestnut hair. It falls in loose waves just past her shoulders. I got my hair from her. I wrap my arms timidly around her plump body.

She releases me but keeps her hands on my shoulders, looking into my eyes, "How are you, Dear? I feel like it's been ages since we last spent time together- oh!" She says excitedly before I can respond, "I've got something for you!"

She shuffles through her large black purse at her side. The wrinkles on her forehead intensify as she burrows her eyebrows in concentration, "Now where have you gone?" She mutters to her open purse. Her hand rummages through countless items.

"Ah, here we are!" She pulls out a wrapped present, a small box. She shoves it into my hands and I stammer for words. I take the gift. It's small, no larger than a tennis ball, and light. I resist the urge to shake it.

"Thanks, Mom. Christmas isn't until a couple months from now."

She waves off my remark, "Open it!" Her eyes gleam, her round cheeks flushed.

I tug at the fold in the paper, being careful to tear the festive paper only a little.

"Oh, you've always been terrible at opening gifts." My mother shakes her head at me, "Tear into it, Sweetie!"

I laugh and tear the paper off, revealing a white box with a lid. I slide the lid off and find two gold earrings resting in white cloth. They're small maple leaves. My mother sighs, looking at them.

"I saw them in the shop window and I thought, 'Those would look just lovely on Molly!'"

"They're lovely." I agree

"Of course they are!" She adds and I follow her as she turns and walks to my kitchen.

"You know I love your home, Molly. But I've always said it's a bit big. And empty." She gives me a look. My fingers grip the gift box tightly. "I just think it'd be nice to have some little ones running about-"

I laugh nervously.

"Well, you're not getting any younger. And look at you, Dear." She tilts her head at me, a look of concern on her face.

"I'm fine, Mom. I have plenty of time for all that." My palms sweat against the paper on the box.

She sets her bag on the counter, "When's the last time you went on a date?" I look past her. My eyes land on a glass next to the sink.

"I'm sure playing with dead bodies all day isn't helping you get any dates." She adds in a gentle voice.

My cheeks burn, "Mom, I don't-  _play_  with bodies. It's very important- what I do-"

"It's a bit morbid." She grimaces, "And you're all alone down in that basement."

"It's not a basement."

"It's not a very social position, Dear. I still think transferring into internal diagnostic medicine would be better for you. Like your dad."

"Are we going out?" I suddenly ask.

Her face brightens in surprise, as though she's just remembering, "Oh I know the perfect little café. We'll go for brunch. They serve the best tea! You go get finished getting ready, Sweetie, and we'll finish talking about this then."

I retreat upstairs and close my bedroom door. I take a few slow breaths and stare at myself in the mirror. I brush through my wet hair and fix the pony tail I sloppily pulled it into earlier. I put mascara on and decide to put on the maple leaf earrings as well. They do look nice. I take one last look at myself before going back downstairs.

I find my mom in the kitchen drinking water from a glass. "There you are." She says cheerfully when I enter, "You look charming, Molly. I told you those earrings would look lovely on you!"

I smile and nod. She looks at me for a quiet moment, then suddenly adds, "You have your father's eyes." Her face isn't as cheery as it was a moment ago and something heavy shows in her eyes.

"Well!" The cheerfulness returns and she snatches her purse off the counter, "We best be off, then!"

"Yeah!" I smile and grab my bag off of my couch as we walk outside. She hails a cab as I lock my front door. We both climb into the cab and she gives the address to the cab driver. It takes only moments for the cab to take us to the café my mother was talking about and she excitedly shoos me out of the cab after paying the driver.

I step out onto the curb and my heel crushes a dead orange leaf. Several autumn leaves scatter the pavement and brush against the shop doors along the street. The wind carries the leaves from the park near here. My mother steps out behind me and ushers me forward into the café.

"Right here." She says as she picks an intimate table by the window. She sits across from me and hangs her purse on the back of her chair. I set mine down by my feet.

"Now abut that doctor stuff- did you wanna go ahead and order, Dear" she interrupts herself.

"Oh-uh," I search around for a menu. The menu is written in chalk on a blackboard above the counter where we order. Coffee grinders hum in the background and quiet chatter fills the air. Music plays overhead and the smell of spiced tea lingers in the air. I have to squint at the words, not wanting to dig in my purse for my glasses.

"I'll just have tea, I'm not really hungry." My stomach growls.

"Rubbish." My mother waves her hand at me, "I'll order you what I always get when I come here. Vanilla-bean cheesecake!" A devilish smile infects her thin pink lips. "Your brother always gets onto me about that sweet stuff." She says in a hushed voice, then laughs.

"And- how is he?" I ask softly.

"He's good, Dear."

 _He's well_ , I mentally correct her, then mentally kick myself for doing that. "That's good!"

"Yeah, but you know how he is. Always trying to take care of me. I keep telling him  _I'm_  the mom!" Her laugh is thick and bright.

"Yeah, that's him." My fingers toil with the strap of my purse on my knee.

"Well, I'm going to get us some cake and a bit of tea, yeah?" She scrapes her chair legs loudly on the floor as she tries to stand, her plump body brushing up against the table. Finally she's free and weaves her way between tables to get to the counter. I watch her. Her short frame reaches just an inch or so below mine, but her large body makes her appear shorter. Her light blue sweater hangs loosely from her waist, her dark jeans wrinkle at the back of her legs. My dad used to iron her clothes for her. She always made of him for that, but it was out of love. Now her clothes show wrinkles like crumpled paper. The consequence of putting her clothes into drawers instead of hanging them.

I have to look away because something about watching her now, in her wrinkled jeans, bothers me. I watch people pass by through the window. I watch the wind drag leaves lazily across the pavement. I startle when I hear the sharp sound of a glass plate being placed on the table. I turn to find her placing two plates on our table.

"I got you pumpkin instead, Dear. I know how much you like pumpkin and they've just started serving it for the season." She slides the plate of pumpkin pie closer to me and sets her plate on her side of the table. She goes back for the cups of tea. I feel guilty for not helping her. She returns and hands my cup to me.

"I got your favorite; Spiced Apple Chai Tea." She beams proudly at me.

My cold fingers wrap around the hot mug, "Thank you, it's delicious." I say kindly. The strong scent of apples and spices billow toward me in the steam from my mug. My mother sits down and has to jiggle in the chair to get it to move forward. I try to look away as she fusses with the chair, making loud screeching noises as it's legs scrape the floor. People look our way, I glare at them. They look away.

"You really should eat, Molly!" She gestures toward my pie. "You're just like your brother, you know, all skin and bones! Paper-thin." She shakes her head, "Of course, your brother has muscle from his job at the factory. But you're just so frail!"

"I eat enough. It's metabolism." I try to explain.

"Now don't start on that medical stuff with me, that's just excuses. You don't eat like you should! And what about being a doctor, like I said? I told you I won't let that go."

Now I'm getting frustrated, "Mom, I don't want to change my profession. I like what I do- I love what I do!"

"Well, you don't need to get defensive, I just think you'd do so much better getting out of that morgue." She adds defensively. I sigh. It's quiet a moment. Her fork screams against her plate as she cuts her cake. She shoves a bite into her small mouth. I look down at my own pie. I poke small holes into its smooth surface with my fork. I hate it when she brings up my work. She doesn't understand it. Maybe it's because it has so much to do with death. I know she only pressures me because she cares. And maybe she cares too much. And maybe it's because she's lonely.

I swallow and look up at her. She's chewing quietly, looking around. "Mom." I say. She looks at me, her green eyes welcoming. "I love you." She stops chewing. She swallows.

"Of course, Dear!" She replies lightly, "Now eat some pie before you waste away!"

I cut off a piece of pie and stick it in my mouth. The pumpkin flavor floods my tongue. She is right, I love pumpkin.


	11. A Fine Detail Indeed

  
  
  
**_Lestrade_**    
  


With a heavy sigh I peel off my coat. I lay it on the dinning room table. My feet carry me down the hall, I flip the lights on as I go. The house is often dark and quiet when I come home.

The bedroom door is left slightly ajar. I place my palm on it and gently push it open, it creaks lightly. I'm left staring at an empty room and an empty bed. I kick my shoes off and leave them by the foot of my bed. Sliding off my wristwatch, I lay it upon the desk by the bed and for a moment my eyes settle on a framed picture. It's an old picture, long since forgotten. Left on the desk as an ornament of a past life. My wife and I forever imprinted on photo paper and captured in a frame. It may seem void, but I just can't bring myself to put the picture away.

The mattress caves under my weight as I sit on the bed. I run my hands down my face in exhaustion. It's been a long day. Too long. I didn't get any feedback from John, like I expected to. Hopefully he'll have something for me tomorrow. Another benefit of calling John for help, although I don't admit this to anyone, is that he can use resources I can't. Or rather, he doesn't have to go through the protocols that I do. What may require paperwork and time for me, only requires a bit of clever manipulation for John.

I pull my phone out of my pant pocket. As I begin to lay it upon the table next to the bed, I hesitate. My thumb slides over the thin glass screen, unlocking it. I shouldn't do this. I need to give it more time, is all. Then things will work out. But the temptation of my heart wins out over the logic of my mind and dial my wife's number. I slowly put the phone to my ear. As it rings loudly at me I suddenly realize I don't know what I should say. I hold my breath as I listen to each ring. The voicemail picks up, I instinctively straighten my posture.

When the recording beeps, I take a breath, "Uh- hey. It's...me."

I frantically search my brain for something to say, "Just calling to see how you're doing." Silence hums at me. I clear my throat. "You're staying at your sisters, then?" I know she's not, "I hope you have a good night." After an awkward pause, I finish, "okay." Then I hang up. I drop my phone on the bed next to me and sit for a moment. That might have been a terrible idea. I think about lying down, but decide I'm not tired enough and instead I go to the living room to watch T.V..

The light from the television flickers against the empty walls of my living room. It paints my body in greys and blues and floods the white carpet. I don't know when exactly it happened, but I fell asleep on the couch. I wake up hours later, cold. It must be early, it's still dark out, but I imagine it will be getting light soon. I pull myself up, my body feels stiff. Sitting up, I fight the sluggishness pulling on my eyelids. After a few restful moments, I pull myself off the couch and click the tv off. Ignoring the cold working it's way up my body, I make it to my room and slide myself into bed. I pull the covers up to my chin, holding in my warmth. I don't want to run my heater and raise my electricity bill, so I have extra blankets on my bed. I run the heater when it gets too cold. But this is endurable. I close my eyes and surrender again to unconsciousness.

My hungry stomach pulls me from my slumber and I open my eyes to a sunlit room. The warm sunlight bathes the walls and warms the air. My stomach growls at me, so I tug the toasty covers from my body and slide my feet into my slippers. With a wide yawn I walk from my bedroom to my kitchen and pull out a bowl and cereal from the cupboards. I eat at the table, but have the T.V. on facing me from the other room. I listen to it's noise but let my mind wander to my work.

An hour from now, when I come into the office, I'll check up on the lab progress on the number sequence from Sam Williams' stomach. I'll have to call John as well, see if he's made any progress himself. I finish my cereal and put my dishes in the sink. Then I quickly shower and dress in my usual suit. I brush my teeth and grab my phone. No texts, no missed calls. I sigh in resignation and tuck my phone into my pocket. I turn the T.V. off on my way out.

Sally is typing a report at her desk when I arrive at Scotland Yard. I nod to her as a greeting and she smiles back. Her voluminous, tight curly hair blankets her shoulders; a dark contrast to her white shirt. I continue past her desk and settle into my office, laying my jacket on the back of my chair before sitting down. I start my computer and check for any messages on my phone machine. I also check my email. Nothing yet.

Hours crawl by as I flip through reports and prepare recently solved cases for trial. It's nearly lunch when my office phone rings. Hoping it's the results from the numerologist for Williams' case I answer enthusiastically.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Ah- hey, Lestrade. It's John."

I relax in my chair, "oh, hello John."

"Well, don't sound disappointed." He says sarcastically.

"No, I was just waiting on a call from the lab. What's up?"

"It's about the Brody murder- er- death. Well, murder, yeah."

I straighten my poster in increased interest, "Yeah?"

"I think he was dressed after he died."

"The wife said he was meant to have gone to work that evening, that's why he was dressed in a suit." I counter.

"Look, I think she's lying. If you look at the photos showing his feet, you can see the laces. Brody is right-handed, but the laces are tied with the left lace on top of the knot-"

"Well, I don't know if that automatically means he didn't tie them-"

"And the knot is facing away from his anckle!"

"And what's that mean?" I follow his train of thought, but I'm not sure if it really means anything.

He pauses a moment, "Look at your shoes, Lestrade."

I look at my laces, knots tied sloppily. "What am I supposed to see, then?" I ask.

"The angle your laces come out, they come out facing you, right? So the bow is right-side up for you, when you look at it. Because  _you_  tied the knots."

I analyze my laces, he's right. I image the bow reversed, I couldn't tie in up-side-down bow. "Someone else tied his shoes." I concede.

"Yeah. I think someone changed him into his work clothes after he was dead. Someone who is left-handed."

"The missing time from the wife's report."

"She must have been doing something for nearly half an hour. That's a long time between coming home and finding your husband dead in the next room." He adds.

"Well, we'll talk to her again. See if she's left-handed."

"Yeah, alright. I meant to call the other day about it-"

"You waited that long to tell me?"

"I have got a job, you know. Like- a  _real_  job." He retorts.

"Ey, I'd pay you if I could!" I reply defensively. He chuckles. "And John," I add, "that was a nice detail. Don't think anyone here would have noticed." It gets a little quiet. Our minds both wander to the one person we don't talk about.

"Uh- yeah, thanks Lestrade. And how are things?" He asks.

"A bit slow, I'll send Sally to question Brody's wife again. I'll call you if anything turns up."

"Okay, thanks-again."

"Bye." The line dies and I hang up my phone. He noticed the laces. I lean back in my chair. How did he notice the laces?

I dial Sally's extension and wait for her to answer.

"Sargent Donovan." Her assertive voice greets me.

"Hey, Sally. You remember when you said I should leave John out of things?"

"Yeah, and I still think you should."

"Well, I've got something that might change your mind."

She's quiet for a moment, "What is it?"

"He noticed something everyone missed." I say, a little too pleased, "We need to question Brody's wife, again."

"We've already questioned her, I don't see us getting anymore out of her."

"Maybe not, but I think there's something more. She's hiding something."

She blows out a deep breath, "Fine, Want me to call her in?"

"We'll go out there. It's not far. And I'm tired of being stuck in here."

"So you're coming with me, then?"

"Yeah, I wanna see what she says. I wasn't there the first the time you questioned her."

"Alright, I'll meet you out front in ten." She hangs up.

Ten minutes later we're on our way to Mrs. Brody's house. She owns a two story home in Belgravia, a luxury of a wealthy life. We walk up the stone steps leading to a large white door. Everything kept in impeccable condition. Sally rings the doorbell and adjusts her dark grey coat. We are promptly greeted by a man dressed in black slacks. A short haircut frames his grey hair and his green eyes sparkle at us, encircled by pale skin marked by age.

"Mrs. Brody will be down in a moment, you may wait in the piano room." He steps aside and ushers us in. The door leads to a wide hallway, which leads to several open rooms and a staircase at the far end of the hall. The first room on the right must be the piano room, this is the room to which the man walks us.

"Please, take a seat." He requests politely, his voice calm and easily paced.

Before sitting, Sally offers her hand for the man to shake, "Sargent Donovan."

"Inspector Lestrade." I do the same.

"You said Mrs. Brody will be down soon?" Sally questions him.

"Yes. She's just returned from a showing at her gallery." As the man speaks, I recall that Mrs. Brody is an art dealer. Sally and I sit on the black couch facing the grande piano. It's massive form stands before us, mahogany and finely polished. A large window dressed in white lace curtains is behind the couch, casting brilliant lighting into the room. The old man leaves us and ascends the stairs. I presume to inform Mrs. Brody of who we are.

A few quiet moments pass, then we hear heels coming down the stairs. Mrs. Brody comes into view seconds later. She's dressed in a snug black dress and modest black heels. Her blonde hair hangs in messy waves past her shoulders.

"Forgive me for the wait, I had to let my hair down. Showings always tend to give me a headache." She sits delicately in the chair next to the couch, facing us. She crosses one leg upon the other, letting the heel on her hanging foot fall from her heel and hang loosely on her toes. She sways it a little, absentmindedly, as she eyes us patiently. "And I see Mr. Bockus let you in. I hired him this last week."

"Yes, Mrs. Brody. We just have some really quick questions for you. It won't take long." I start.

"About the night you found your husband." Sally adds, gently.

Mrs. Brody takes a deep breath, "We've already discussed this. Thoroughly. I see no cause for revisiting the topic." Her blue eyes shine with intensity and her brows knit together.

"I promise, it'll only take a quick moment-" I try.

"I was informed he died of an accidental poisoning." She adds sharply. "What more is there to explore?"

"We understand this is difficult-" Sally responds.

"Difficult?" Mrs. Brody's eyes water, the icy blue color swimming in her irises reflects light from the window. Her jaw is set, her voice is harsh, "My husband is  _dead_. I found him on our bedroom floor! And you understand this is difficult?" She adds incredulously.

"You said you waited a bit before going upstairs, once you returned home?" I change the direction of the conversation, trying to get her to respond to me.

She takes a shaky breath and scrutinizes me, "I ate a snack downstairs before going to bed. I was hungry after the show. I found him as soon as I went to our room. Why are you inquiring of this, again?"

"We're just making sure we have all the facts." Sally replies confidently.

"You see, we noticed something about your husbands shoes." She looks at me as I talk. "It appears his shoes were put on by someone else?" I test the water and gage her reaction.

"What?" Annoyance plays on her voice, "Are you suggesting that I dressed my husband?"

"We're simply-" I try to reply, she cuts me off.

"I think you two should be going, now." She stands to see us off. Sally and I hesitate a moment, but the stern look on Mrs. Brody's face tells us she isn't going to cooperate any longer. So we reluctantly stand and she walks us to the door. She pulls the door open for us, I turn to her.

"One last thing, Mrs. Brody. Are you right-handed?"

Annoyed confusion pulls on her face, "What has that to do with anything?"

"Just...humor me." I push her.

She sighs in resignation, "No." She extends her hand toward her open door, palm up, signaling us to leave.

"Thank you, Mrs. Brody." I nod a farewell to her. Sally does the same. Mrs. Brody doesn't respond in kind. She closes the door quickly after we've stepped out.

"There's mourning, and then there's-"

"Panic." I finish Sally's sentence, excitement in my chest.

"I was going to say 'anger', actually. Why panic?" We stand at the curb, waiting for a cab.

"I don't know why." I say lightheartedly.

Sally scoffs, "Why are you so happy?"

"She's left-handed." I chuckle and Sally gives me a questioning look, her caramel skin radiant in the sun. She grabs the attention of a passing cab and we climb in.

"So? She's left-handed." Sally questions me. I explain to her what John pointed out about her late husband's shoe laces.

"But why would Mrs. Brody dress her husband and make it appear as though he were going to work when he died?"

I shrug, "That's why I said I don't know." I don't know yet, that is. But I'm getting closer. This is my favorite part. Putting things together, catching a break, and getting closer to justice. I think that's the part of me that understood how Sherlock could get so consumed by a case. A small part of me that understood a small part of him.   
  
  


**_Unknown_ **

 

I am an insatiable soul; torn between my conditional existence and my immortal dreams. This grotesque, unstable world requires a ruler. Someone to speak into the chaos and bring it to it's knees. The world needs a queen. I am it's Queen. And I will bring this world to its knees. Perhaps I cannot infect the entire world, but I can make tremble that which is within my grasp. But as enticing as that is, it is not enough. However, it will have to do. I am, after all, cursed with a fragile existence. Such a short life, that of a human. There simply is not enough time in a lifetime to achieve all that I desire.

I sigh and toss the photograph of Volkov onto the table in front of me. The salty sea air fights it's way through the rafters. Everything is going well, so far. I should be pleased. Instead impatience chokes in my throat. I've grown weary of this endeavor. I must remind myself to be patient. He will come. He's out there, I know he is. With the Volkov arrangement, I've made it so easy for him.

And if he doesn't, I'll have to find someone to make an example of.


	12. Hello, John

  
  
  
**_John_ **

 

We are at Bartholomews. We are bathed in silence. Around us, the late autumn air is still. He is high, towering over the ground. And for a moment, everything is calm. But something changes. Fabric swims in waves of black; the slow, gentle rustle of his coat. Cold wind whistles past him. Our hands are outstretched, grasping for anything. But everything is falling, falling fast. There's no stopping it now, but I try every time. I open my mouth to yell. Speak the magic words to freeze time. Maybe if I plead loud enough. But no sound escapes my lips. Or maybe he just can't hear me. He never does.

Oh God, stop this.

Now it's cold cement. Cracks flooded with the recent rain. And red. It seeps into the grains of the pavement, it paints the muddy water. It blossoms out like an opening bud, begging for light. A sinister twist on a brilliant halo, crowning the head of a fallen angel. And it's all I see. Pale skin and red pavement. The world is fragile. It balances on a beam of cracked glass. I steal my breath in my lungs. One move, and everything shatters. I am an immobile reflection of myself. Everything stands motionless, lifeless stills locked in this hell.

There is no time here. I feel eternity carve into my skin. I soak in it until it's corrupted my entire being. It cracks my bones. It swims in my veins and bloats in my heart. A thickened sludge fills me up like an empty glass. And I know it's him. He can swim in my veins, a heavy wine, until I am drunk. My head grows heavy and suddenly I am falling too. I stumble about, clutching for balance, in fear of this fragile world caving in. But I cannot get that red out of my mind, it has stained me. It takes up permanent residence in my thoughts. I am helpless. Oh God, I tried. With everything I am, I tried. But it never makes a difference.

My movements are frantic now, I'm reaching again. I am on the street, he lies before me. If I can just get to him. If I could just-

 _John_.

The low rhythmic tone of his voice swims in the air. I look for him, my eyes examine his lifeless body. His lips do not move.

 _John, it's time to wake up now_.

I grab for him but I cannot reach, I can never reach him. I'm yelling for him, my voice begs for him to stop;  _just get up, Sherlock. Just get up_. But he does not move. And I am spiraling further away. Everything changes, the hospital is gone, I am no longer on the ground. I am sinking into a great sea.

 _It is only a dream_.

His voice snakes it's way down to me and wraps around my sinking body. He is pulling me from the muddy depths, a pale light illuminates the distant surface. In the gelid water that cocoons my flesh, his voice is warmth.

_Wake up, John._

And suddenly my body tears through the surface of the sea and I am rushing through the air until-

My eyes open to a dark room. I am home, in the flat. I am alone. Darkness lies around me. I lie still for a few moments, catching my breath. Sweat beads on my brow and my chest aches. And I am alone.   
  
  


 ** _Sherlock_**    
  


I refuse to tolerate any further waiting. If I wait any longer the anticipation of it may eat away at me entirely. And I have so little patience, after all. I pace back and forth anxiously in the small room Mycroft reserved for me at his home. It is only mid-afternoon now, but the rain outside has darkened the sky and pours a still coolness into the room through the cracked window. I inhale the damp air slowly, but inside I feel as though I may explode. Inexplicable energy burns in my core, as it usually does when I'm on the hunt, or I've grown bored, or I simply desire something so immediately I cannot contain myself. And I desire this. I desire to confide in my best friend after two long years of separation. I desire to relieve him of his mourning.

But I know I should not rush such a thing. That's something he would say; ' _Sherlock, don't get too excited_.' And I want to be sure that he is alone when I do confront him. It must be orchestrated in a controlled setting. Meaning, privately. Where, perhaps, I may better control his reaction and the following result of my appearance. Particularly since I only wish for John to be aware of my disposition. The others will soon follow, especially Mrs. Hudson. But John deserves first acknowledgement.

I heave an exasperated sigh and stand upon the couch resting before the window. I peer through the cracked window, casting the curtain fully aside, exposing the grey exterior. I'm far too anxious to remain cooped in this restrictive room! I quickly hop off the couch and snatch up my coat from the table beside the couch. I briskly make my way through the passages of the house and pull myself outside. I readily embrace the cold, taking it into me as I slam Mycroft's door behind me. On the sidewalk, I turn and walk quickly along the street. My feet ignite miniature tsunamis from the puddles they meet along the pavement. I walk quickly, trying to expel some of the energy threatening to tear through my chest. I walk without purpose, without direction.

I feel the urge, that familiar call. I've felt it since the day I left, and I've struggled so dearly to oppress it. It has been my master in the past, but something about it now has helped me keep it at bay. Every time my fingers mindless trail alongside my coat pocket, where I used to keep my old friend, I imagine what John would say. I've stayed away from the cursed substance that once illuminated my heart, because I believe John would be ashamed of me. He would be disappointed. And his words of honest praise would easily turn to words of regret. This stops me every time.

So now, when I thrust my nimble fingers into my pocket, instead of finding a small bag of white powder, I find a cigarette pack. I have quit smoking, but this is a particularly special occasion, and in a bout of premature excitement, I bought a pack last night. I thought about simply taking Mycroft's, after all, why should I pay? But I didn't want to be so obvious.

I tug the unopened pack from my pocket and quickly strip off the plastic seal. Tossing the wrapping aside, I pull open the top and pinch out a cigarette. Balancing the bud between my lips, I replace the pack and withdraw my lighter. I stop moving only to cup the cigarette tip with my hand to block the rain and breeze. I light it quickly and put the lighter back into my pocket. By now I feel the tender rain bleed into my hair and trace delicate lines down my cheeks. I breathe the nicotine in deeply, flooding my lungs with the hot bitter gas.

After some moments I realize I have been walking toward my old flat. Where surely John awaits me, unknowingly. I've been watching him closely this past week, more so than usual. I know he must be home alone. Mary is working, Mrs Hudson will be in the shop. My excitement grows in my chest like a weed, digging roots into my stomach and blossoming in my throat. I finish the cigarette and drop it to the wet pavement. I thrust my hand above my head to signal for a cab, the remaining distance to Baker Street is far too much to practically cover on foot. Though this rapid walk has served my nerves well.

A cab pulls to the side and I quickly slide inside. I sit upon my coat tails, moistened from the rain, and mutter the address to the cabbie. I don't bother taking much notice of him, besides cataloging his basic apparence and evident status as an estranged father of two, judging by the old picture of a boy and girl clinging to his dash. I turn my attention to more interesting matters and look out the window. My eyes dance with the splattering rain droplets on the glass. They erratically collide with the glass and erupt with each other. A quiet water war. I need to plan what to say, how to say it. But I haven't any real plan.

Several quiet minutes later, the cab breaking pulls me from introspection and I find myself at a stop in front of 221b Baker Street. I tug some loose money from my pocket and hand it to the driver. I take another heavy breath before opening the door and stepping onto the pavement. My movements are slow now, no longer urgently rushed. My heart quickens, a natural response. I close the cab door behind me and step closer to my old door.

Without further thought I push open the door and intrude. I click the door closed behind me and climb the stairs. In the silence I can hear the rain beat upon the roof, just faint delicate pounding. I reach the top of the stairs and notice the door to our living quarters hangs open, innocently welcoming. I listen to discern John's location, the water pipes creaking in the wall to the right tells me he is in the bathroom. I hesitate before entering the flat, how much damage can my reappearance really do? After being believed dead for two years and mourned by my friend?

Feeling my body temperature rise I pull at the scarf around me neck. God, it's hot in here. Perhaps it is just me. That's likely considering the physiological consequence of the adrenaline I'm surely suffering. I really ought to have planned this out. I choke on the breath I inhale and make a quiet coughing sound. I need to do this. It is an absolute. It has already been decided, no forfeiting now. I step over the threshold and close my eyes, listening to the movements of John in the bathroom. I can hear his existence through the wall, reiterating the reality of this moment. After having been so clandestine for so long, this overt exposure is shocking. But not nearly as shocking as it's sure to get once John exits the bathroom.

I sigh and unwrap my scarf from my neck. I shed my heavy coat and hang it upon the coat rack, next to his, along with my scarf. I walk to the desk between the windows and look over the items littering it's face. The curtains of the windows are pulled aside, casting pale light into the room, everything is well lit. There is stillness in the air, a calm before the storm.

I hear the bathroom door open and the distinctive manner of John's gait. His footsteps are sure, they play against the floor in the bedroom. I look at the papers upon the desk but do not see any of them. I only listen, watching him mentally. He is so close now. His footsteps grow quieter as he gets further away, toward the bed, and louder as he turns to leave the bedroom. However, as he crosses into the living room the sound comes to an immediate stop. An icy silence surges through the room. I can feel him holding his breath. I look up from the desk, still turned away from him. A quiet second passes before I speak.

"Hello, John." I turn to him gracefully, "Miss me?"

His face is utterly void. A self-consuming shock has stolen his voice. I can read no emotion on his face, no recognition in his eyes. He appears entirely emptied, standing naked in his robe. It's tied at his waist and his raggedy blonde hair is thickened by water.

I pluck a paperweight from the desk and flip it in my hand, "I see you've been busy." I gesture toward the desk and give him a half smile. He doesn't respond to my tease, he remains motionless. Then he takes a cautious step toward me, as though he can sense the fragility of the moment and any wrong move may send it fleeting. He approaches me with what I determine to be disbelief on his face. Empty, exhausted, disbelief. As though he has seen this many times before and has grown weary of the torment. The heaviness in his eyes sobers my playfulness and I set the paperweight down. I turn my body to face him completely. He stops only feet before me.

"John, I-"

"-No." He speaks for the first time. His voice is curt, the soldier I remember. His brownish-blue eyes are cold.

I take a breath and begin again, "I had to-"

"-No." He shakes his head as he says it, "No. You're dead."

"I couldn't tell you." My voice is quiet as I try to explain.

"I watched you- you-" his voice is rising, he points an accusatory finger at me, "you  _jumped_!"

Droplets of water cling helplessly to strands of his hair, they fall as he shakes his head slowly and looks away from me. I can't read his eyes, but his voice says anger, and something more intimate. Pain? He looks back at me, his wide eyes absorbing my image, trying to work out the possibility of my presence here.

I can feel myself beginning to lose patience, "John, I had to satisfy the belief that I had died with Moriarty or-"

"Get out." His voice is low and demanding. A purely threatening tone. I open my mouth to speak but his set jaw suggests I don't speak. He hasn't entirely accepted my not being dead, yet.

"Sherlock-" He says as he clenches his fists and releases them, thinking. His mind is racing, "Sherlock." He takes a breath. Then gives his head a curt shake, "No." He states simply and turns to leave.

Without thinking I instinctively reach out and grasp his arm, to stop him. We're both shocked at my move, and for a moment I simply look at my hand, my long fingers wrapped around his arm, just above the elbow. "John." I demand, then I immediately let go. I want him to listen to me, I have so little patience for sentiment. But the look on his face is warning enough. I say no more. Instead I brush past him and leave the flat, descending the steps quickly.   
  
  
  


 ** _John_**    
  


He's an anchor holding me in place. I hate him with every atom of my being, and yet I want to imprison him in this very spot, so afraid that this is a cruel illusion. A rogue memory of a time long past, come to twist my mind. I need to solidify his presence, validate what my senses are showing me. He faked his death? But I saw him...I look away from him now, remember the way his blood painted the cement.

His cool grasp chills my skin as he demands my attention, I look back at him. For the first time I see a sadness in his eyes. A heavy note he doesn't speak. His damp black hair falls in chaotic curls framing his pale skin. His dark blue shirt must have been kept dry by a coat, but his black pants are soaked near his ankles. Did he walk here? He releases his grip and now I'm falling away, drifting to some distance space. He brushes past me and leaves me standing alone. And suddenly I hit the ground, no longer drifting away but instead standing rigidly in place. Did he speak? I do not move as I listen to his feet hit each step and finally the door open to release him. I realize I am standing with my mouth open and I close it with a shaky swallow. My heart is pounding, my thoughts swimming. He faked his death?

I can't believe this. I literally cannot accept that he would do this. I scoff. Of course he would do something like this. What shocks me, is that he did it to me. For two bloody years! He lied to me! And dear Mrs. Hudson...

I swallow again, trying to push down the anger boiling in my stomach. Sherlock is alive. Sherlock Holmes is alive! And that bastard lied to us! He faked his death! I don't even care about whatever selfish explanation he has to offer. I knew Moriarty was wrong. I  _knew_  he was wrong! And I've been believing for two years that Sherlock had died in vain! He had me going for two years.

I sit at the desk, still working this through. I've imagined this countless times, I've wished for it, craved it. And now, I simply can't believe it. How am I supposed to feel? What am I supposed to do now? I can't just accept this. After all this time...I can't just accept him. Does he truly not understand the cruelty? I assumed he understood friendship. If not the entire construct, then at least the parameters of our own friendship. And it was more than that. It was a mutual understanding that we could count on each other. And he let me down. Did he not trust me enough with the truth?

A new rush of anger pulls me up and now I'm standing. Who knows he's alive? Have they known all along? I rush to the window and scan the street below, searching for him. Funny, I've done this many times before, pointlessly. But now I expect to find him. I look over each person walking below, I analyze any cabs that may have recently pulled from the curb. I do not see him. A part of me wonders if it was a sick play of my mind. If maybe it had finally been long enough and my mind was done. I step back from the window and suddenly remember I haven't dressed yet. To distract my wandering thoughts I go to the room to get dressed. Once I'm dressed, I'm calling Mycroft.


	13. A Midnight Affair

  
  
  
  
**_John_ **

The phone poised loosely in my hand, I can only stare at it. Oddly, I couldn't bring myself to actually dial Mycroft. I'm not sure why, honestly. I suppose the shock is really hitting me. I haven't any idea what I would say. I'm not sure how to even articulate what's just happened.

Sherlock Holmes is alive.

I sit in silence, long slow minutes stretch out around me. I hear my heart beating, my hand sweats against the smooth plastic of the phone. And then it comes. The anger. The outrage. I've dealt with his death; I've grieved! And I was ready to accept that and move on, with Mary!

What can I possibly do now?

I place my phone face down on the desk and for a moment I have to resist the impulse to propel his violin across the room. Smash it to pieces; oh, how it's haunted me. Before I can contemplate further, faint steps fall upon the stairs. They're hesitant. I turn and find  _him_  standing at the door. More wet than he was before. For a moment I think this odd, since he walked here earlier, but then I realize it's his shirt. It's wet now, where it was not before. Because it was protected. I walked briskly to the coat rack, unwilling to look him in the eye.

Crystal droplets of water cling desperately to his shaken hair. His curls are pulled by the weight of the water. He parts his lips to speak, but pauses.

"I forgot my coat," his voice is heavy, just as I've always remembered it.

I stop before him, instead of grabbing his coat, "You're an idiot." It's that anger again.

He blinks, slowly, perhaps arranging words in his mind. I can almost see him file sentences.

"Look, maybe I should have chosen a better way-"

"A better way?! As in a better way to let your friend go on believing you're- you let me grieve!"

His elegant hand is up now, unfolded between us, as if in effort to calm me.

"And now you know. I'm not dead. So now we can get back to work." He says this far too cheerfully, clearly not understanding the great injustice he's done me.

It happens far too quickly for me to have stopped it. I hadn't even thought about it. He certainly didn't expect it, of course he didn't. He's too oblivious to even try to understand how he's made me feel. So when my right fist made contact with his left cheek, it knocked him off balance.

His lengthy form hits the door frame, his right arm outstretched to catch himself against the wall. This does nothing, he tumbles over like a giant redwood, cut down by a chainsaw. It's really ungraceful, the way he collapses. And I remember the first time we had worked a case together, thinking that he must be ungainly. If I weren't so hurt, and angry, I might find it even comical; his long limbs sprawled out in the air as he falls, his eyes wide from surprise.

For someone so observant it's ironic he's so shocked. He lands in an awkward angle, his butt somewhat protruding upward. He quickly regains his posture and sits up. Bringing his nimble fingers up to cup his cheek, he looks up at me with an intense gaze. I don't waver. I don't even blink. I realize my hands are in fists at my sides, as though if they squeeze tight enough they may hold back the anger. He slowly pulls himself up, careful not to stand too close.

"Alright, John," he starts, "I suppose, in retrospect, that may have been warranted-"

"Just get your coat, Sherlock!" I demand. I'm afraid if I let him continue on, I'll be tempted to try the other cheek.

"I really don't-"

"Fine. Have it your way." I yank my coat from the rack and brush past him, to the stairs.

"Where are you going?" He calls after me, childish annoyance dripping in his voice. Or is that hurt?

"I'm going to Mary's!" I yell back, not entirely sure why I'm telling him. I can imagine him staring after me as I retreat. I slam the door to the flat and slip into my coat. A second later I hear the door open and close behind me.

"John," he demands my attention. I ignore him and continue walking toward the street corner. He catches up beside me and falls into step with me. A feathery drizzle dampens our hair and clothes; I notice he still isn't wearing his coat.

"Please," his iridescent eyes devour my countenance. I try to avoid those eyes, with that innocent plea. But it gets inside of me, the way he always does; crawling around under my skin.

"Damnit, Sherlock." I shake my head, annoyed at my own resolve. He steps ahead of me, easily, due to the difference in length of our gait. I slow my pace as he turns on me. His tall body brings my own to a stop and for a moment we stare at each other. The slant of his brow softens his expression, making the sharp lines of his face more striking. The innocence in his face pisses me off.

"Get out of the way, Sherlock."

"If you'll just let me explain."

I squint at him angrily, feeling my hands ball into fists in my coat pockets. "There's no clever excuse you could muster up, not this time."

"There is, however, a positive side to this. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh, is there?"

He states simply, with a crooked grin, "I am alive."

 _Don't hit' him, don't hit him, don't hit him_. My fists squeeze tighter. I push around him, clenching my jaw. His face immediately drops into his usual hardened countenance, seriousness resumed. He steps beside me, keeping my pace.

"If you want to continue being alive, you'll leave me alone, Sherlock." Water beads down the bridge of my nose. Our footsteps clash sporadically with the pooled rainwater dotting the pavement. His pace doesn't falter; he remains by my side.

"Hang on," I say and stop to face him, "Mycroft knows about you, then?"

"Naturally."

"So, Mycroft's known the whole while- and you never thought to tell me?"

"Mycroft's knowing was merely a consequence of my requiring his assistance. Utilizing his resources was beneficial to-"

"Sherlock!" His calm explanation only angers me more. The high volume of my voice attracts the attention of a woman passing us on the sidewalk and I look away from her questioning glance. A silent moment passes as we wait for her to walk out of hearing range. With her gone and the sidewalk to ourselves I look back at Sherlock, my voice quieter. "You're unbelievable."

His brows furrow with a subtle slope and that icy viridescent stare searches my face. I notice a patch on his left cheek, along the cheekbone, is red; bursted capillaries clotting with blood. It's starting to swell. He continues stating at me, expectantly.

"I don't-"

"Who else?" I demand.

"Molly may-"

I'm walking away from him now. I hear his feet hit the pavement as he catches up with me.

"John."

I turn on him again, "It's not that you trusted them enough to let them in on it, Sherlock. That's fine. It's that you didn't trust  _me_  enough." He doesn't say anything, so I continue, "After all the faith I put in you-and you-you couldn't do that for me. I believed in you, when it seemed that nobody else did." I pause, and blink to release a rain droplet that had collected on my lashes, "I  _trusted_  you."

He doesn't say anything, or doesn't know what to say. His cheek's swollen, brows slanted, eye-lashes beaded with water. This time when I walk away from him he doesn't follow me.  
  
  
  


**_Unknown_ **   
  


The ocean breeze pulls in the salty stench of the sea port. The docks along the harbour are vacant in the midnight hour. The man next to me shifts uncomfortably, he thinks I do not notice. I notice everything.

"The men in shipment three reported a delay," he announces, a feathery Northern Irish accent hanging on his words.

"I will not wait long."

"Yes, ma'am."

I take a long inhale of misty air, letting the cold sting my lungs. "It's weapons this time, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am. From our associates in Estonia." His intelligent voice is sure but gentle; so perfectly suited to his disposition. He proves himself useful to me at any opportunity. Another breeze tangles in my long blonde hair, I squint my eyes against the ocean spray as I search the blackened sea for that familiar light signaling the ships arrival.

"Shall I retrieve your coat?" He eyes my sweater, easily defeated by the autumn air.

"Don't be toilsome, Dorian."

He slides his hands into the pockets of his black slacks and stands in silence next to me, watching the ocean. Lights from the harbour reflect off the moving water in splashes of iridescent color. Dorian came to my service only months ago. Young and eager to please, but never relinquishing his dignity. I would never admit it, but I respect that. And he is useful. More than I would have thought, when I first looked into his wide innocent blue eyes. But there was something else in that blue that convinced me he may be worth a test drive. Something he thinks I don't see. And perhaps no one else does- but of course I do. It is something very familiar to me. So I keep him around.

He's better with data than my other employees, he has a silent knowledge, never making himself too obvious but always ready with the answer when I need it. He's very good at making himself unnoticeable. He has a quiet way about him. Perhaps that is why he is slightly more tolerable than the others. Or maybe that is simply due to his skills; his knowledge and technical capabilities.

"I grow impatient easily," I explain.

"Will it be better to go in, then?"

"How bad is the delay?"

"There's a storm coming in, they had to change their route. Approximately an hour's delay."

I pull out my cell from my jean pocket and check the time. Just past midnight. I sigh.

"Call me when they arrive, Dorian," I demand.

"Yes, ma'am."

I leave him standing alone on the dock. Back inside the warehouse I slide closed the door to my second story office. It overlooks the vast warehouse floor, allowing me to survey my workers and the shipments brought in. The building itself is very private- tall wooden walls permitting light to enter only through the small windows along the top. Large sliding doors open to the Harbour. Perfect for the business.

I sit in the chair behind my desk. Save for the lamp, this chair, another by the door, and the desk are the only furniture in the room. I keep it sparse, with little left laying around. More convenient if we should ever have to leave in a hurry. There are certain risks to this profession; certain ways one must live. And I'm comfortable with that. I have no attachments. And I keep it that way. I pull my handgun from the locked top drawer and slide it into it's holster. I stand to attach the holster to my waist and then cover the weapon with my long sweater. The familiar weight feels good. I turn off the lamp and lock my office door behind me.

As I'm walking along the warehouse's empty floor my phone buzzes in my pocket, I pull it out to see an incoming call from Dorian. I answer it immediately.

"Already?" I start. I had expected more of a wait.

"Yes." He answers. I hang up and make the quick walk down the pier to meet him. He stands with his hands in his pockets, as he usually does, his tall body lean and composed. His gentle posture hides a surprising strength. The icy wind pulls his black hair away from his eyes and those aquamarine eyes meet mine as I stand beside him. He briefly looks to my waist then turns his gaze to the oncoming boat. It's light flashing to signal it's arrival. Everything else is dark.

"Who will it be?" He asks quietly.

"I haven't decided yet." My arm brushes against the firearm laying in wait at my hip.

The boat's lights go out once it's made a safe stop at the dock and the ropes are cast out to hold it in place. The rumble of the engine dies as it's shut off. Immediately the men aboard get to work, lowing the gangway and quickly unloading crates and carrying them to the warehouse. The salt in the air mingles with the scent of fish and dry wood. The boat is large, but not nearly as large as the other shipping boats that come in. It doesn't demand too much notice. The containers are unmarked and stacked in long rows of five along the upper deck. The captain's cabin overlooks the deck and the men sleep in a small cabin below. This crew contains only nine men, including the captain. But affairs like this usually work better with fewer people involved. The organization itself is massive. A global arrangement. But tonight it's just one shipment, one crew.

The captain, dressed in black pants and a zipped leather jacket, comes down the gangway to meet me. Dorian and I walk the few remaining feet to greet him on his descent. His messy brown hair is moistened by the night air and his pants are wrinkled and hang over wet black shoes. His thin lips pull into a broad smile, crinkling his cheeks around his eyes.

"Sorry 'bout the wait. Bit o' nasty weather came 'bout. Had to take it a lil' south." His leathery skin is darkened by days spent in too much sunlight and small ripples of skin run along his forehead and temples.

"English." I say, he gives me a quizzical look, "I'm always curious about accents," I explain.

"Ey. The good ol' country. God's country, it is." He smiles again, a wistful look in his brown eyes. "And that's American, yeah?" His eyes run along my lips, reading my accent.

I nod my chin toward the deck, "How much?"

"I don't know nuffin about the contents, I just ship." He offers an apologetic shrug. I scrutinize his appearance, thinking. He holds his cap in his weathered hands. He's spent many years on the sea, exposed to harsh conditions. It's a life that has stamped itself on his tough skin and dyed it's scent into his clothes.

"How much?" I repeat.

He squints his eyes and looks back to the men unloading the crates. They make careful steps down the gangway, two men to one heavy crate, each taking an end, and quietly tread along the docks. They've been instructed thoroughly on where to go as soon as they dock so I don't waste time worrying about them. However, I know Dorian is keeping a watchful eye on the line of men, surveying as they make their way along the pier and into the large warehouse which stands to the left of many other warehouses. It's the last one along the harbour, the men have no trouble finding it and pulling the broad doors to the side to gain entry.

The captain looks back at me, "'Bout sixty-five crates."

"Good." Small shipment, not unusual for Estonia. "Will you and the crew be staying for the night?" I ask, not entirely interested.

He licks his dry lips, "We got an early job offah Edinburgh. Can't stay long."

"Oh yes, tell Michael Stonehaven says hi," I recall the coastal town. Michael leads all business in that region. He's a good man of business. Although I deal with him as little as possible. I've rarely seen him in person, and have no desire to. He contacts me when he needs help, he does what's asked of him, and he keeps his crews inline. That's all that I care about.

The captain looks confused again, a quizzical look clouding his thin features, "Jus' Stonehaven?"

I nod in response. He accepts this and produces another wide smile, "Course! And, er, the men will get this unloaded for ya soon." He glances back at the boat, "Won't be long now."

"Thank you." I reply and walk past him, Dorian following me.

"Jus' one question, eh?" He calls after me. I tilt my head back to him, waiting. "Wha's in the crates, can I ask?"

"No." Dorian and I keep walking, leaving him looking after us.

"Not going to shoot anyone, then?" Dorian asks.

"Can't control the weather, Dorian." We pass two of the crew carrying one of the large crates and continue toward the massive building. Sixty-five crates. It's going to be a long night.


	14. Monster

 

**_Unknown_ **

It's eating away at me again. It starts in the back of my mind, just a hint of a thought. A smudge of ink, bleeding through the rest of my mind like old paper. Then that ink trickles down my spine, it blooms around my chest. I try to resist, but I don't really want to. It's much too pleasing to satisfy. A cosmic ecstasy. But I suppose that's how addictions are. Although, this isn't quite like any other addiction.

I hunger for destruction. It's a nasty little habit. They fear me for it. And they should. I may use any one of them to satisfy it. I can destroy them all. Every last one. And I can destroy myself. And it's such a waste, really. I'm so capable of destruction. What better a thing to destroy than my own existence? Isn't that better than destroying everything else? But I want to destroy everything else. It's better that way.

Maybe that's what it means to be alive, to be flawed in such a grotesque way. But I feel the deterioration of my character so profoundly that I don't even feel human. It isn't a kind of painful deficiency. No, it's rather empty, actually. As though there's no heart to it. No heart to me.

But what's really sick is I can't imagine being any other way. I think there's something about darkness that makes me happy. Some kind of obscure beauty, that I don't know if I can live without.

To be honest, it is a vice of mine: destruction. Even the word is beautiful. It paints my mouth and slides off my tongue. And God, does it taste good.

So what does that make me?  
  


 

* * *

 

 

"I'm tired of Scotland, Dorian," I announce as my heavy eyes roam the warehouse floor. I stand just outside my office, hands upon the cold rusted metal of the railing protecting the edge of the upper level platform.

He answers with silence, standing next to me, hands in pockets. I sigh. I had only intended on staying in Stonehaven a short time, while I arranged for Volkof's capture in London. The job is done, the next part set in motion. It's time I move closer to my target.

And, besides, I'm bored here.

"Shall I make the arrangements?" Dorian asks after a moment.

"Yes."

"Good. I already have."

"That's my Dorian." I sneak a flirtatious smile at him.

"Careful, they may see you smiling," he turns and walks down the bar grating stairs. His footsteps echo in the stale air until he reaches the bottom floor.

On the floor below, my crew checks the cargo to be shipped today. They seal the crates and draft detailed inventory; I do like some order after all. This month it's weapons, last month organs, next month- whatever a new client may require. They demand, we ship under the radar. It's a perfectly balanced arrangement.

Of course, I don't care much for the trivial aspects of the job. I didn't intentionally seek illegal trade, but it seems a natural talent of mine. As for this little coastal town- I'm only here because it's a convenient location. I didn't get into this business to be a mindless peddler. I want power. I don't care what career path I'll have to take to get it. And maybe that's why I'm so good at this: my not caring.

The warehouse door sliding open disrupts my introspection. A nicely suited man, caramel skin and dark eyes, walks in, followed by two other suits.

Finally. I've been waiting long enough.

His dark eyes find mine and he starts toward me, navigating the stacks of crates and working men.

"Michael." I greet him atop the stairs, giving no notice to his companions.

"I've received your call, I suspect it's time then?" A Scottish accent molds his tongue.

"Yes, well I've decided on a change." I turn and he follows me into the small room I've made my office. I've tried countless times to reduce the smell of salt and fish in here, to no avail. It's nauseating to work with. My cohorts don't seem to mind. Once in, I close the door.

I settle into the cracked leather chair behind my desk. His two companions, one short with thinned blonde hair, the other a large man squeezed into a small suit, relax near the door. The short man taking residence on a metal chair resting beside the door, his stubby legs crossed over each other while the tall one stands rather stoically, hands clasped over his crotch.

"New friends?" I question Michael sarcastically.

"It's good to make friends. You never quite know when you may need a little extra protection."

I eye the black handle of a fire arm peaking from the standing man's side, tucked nicely under his coat. "Worried, Michael?"

"Taking precautions. I'm aware of Stonehaven's previous manager's fate. What was his name, again?"

"Let's let dead bodies lie, huh? I have a proposition for you." The chair creaks as I lean back in it.

"Is that why I'm here? I was worried after that old captain mentioned you in Edinburgh."

"You know, I almost killed that one," I add playfully. He doesn't smile. "Oh you're no fun. Down to business it is." I roll the chair closer to the desk, laying both my palms upon the scratched wooden surface. "I'm leaving Stonehaven."

He raises a thin eyebrow, "The business?"

"It'll run, as always. Minus my pleasant presence, but I'm sure it'll survive." I smirk, " I have someone in mind to take my place."

He takes a deep breath, sliding his left hand into his pocket, "Who's the lucky soul?"

"That's where you come in- I want your advisor back in Edinburgh."

The edge of his lips twitch, "I'm using her."

"Edinburgh will do just fine without her." He doesn't seemed convinced. "I've been watching the flow between these two districts, and Stonehaven needs improvement." I interlace my fingers and lean forward, my blonde hair pours over my shoulder. "There's more money to be had here, Michael. I chose Stonehaven for it's location, but also because I was a bit disappointed by it's work. That's really when I decided to visit, and make a few management changes," I smile up at him.

He clears his throat, "She runs communications between us and Russia. She's an-"

"And she can run things here." I say more pointedly. He swallows, searching for words. "I'm not a manager, and I'm sick of the smell of fish."

He sighs, "When shall I send her?"

"There we go!" I encourage him excitedly. "By the end of the week."

The muscle along his jaw feathers, "So soon?"

"Hey, between you and me, I'm ready to blow this town." I say jokingly. He doesn't smile this time either. I roll my eyes, "Look, Michael. I'm heading South. England. And the boss doesn't want me leaving empty seats." I motion my hands around me.

"Didn't think she cared about the British sector. She seems to spend all her time Russia."

"She keeps an eye on us. Well, me. But you let me worry about her. And you can worry about me. I'm in charge of this sector, that includes your little corner of England. So do as I say and I won't have to pay you a visit at home." I keep my voice light but I can see the annoyance boil in his eyes.

"You could have called."

"But I like our visits."

"It's not easy crossing borders. It's time consuming and I have a business to run."

"Of course!" I roll my chair back and stand. "And the sooner you send me Izabelle the sooner I'll leave you alone."

He seems resigned as he slides his other hand into his pant pocket. "Where's that pet of yours anyway?"

"On a walk." I retort curtly, trying to ignore the insult to Dorian.

He gives a one syllable chuckle and turns to his men, the sitting one stands and the other opens the door.

"The end of the week, Michael."

He turns and nods at me before leaving, his men following. I pull out my cell once I'm alone and dial Dorian.

"Yes?" He answers.

"Michael's leaving."

"How was that?"

"He isn't happy. But he knows what's good for him."

"So no body bags, then?" He jokes.

"Dorian, you're such a flirter," I tease. He returns silence. "I want London."

He pauses, "London? I thought we agreed country only?"

"I know he's alive."

"London seems...obvious."

"Well, you know me."

"Right. I'll have to change my arrangements. You want the Thames location?"

"Not that obvious. Something quieter. I suspect he'll be sniffing around that lot."

"How about the east side?"

"Surprise me."

"Alright. It'll be done by tomorrow."

"See, this is why I keep you."

"Who will run things here?"

"Izabelle, she's an Edinburgh asset."

"Never heard of her."

"That's the point. Be ready by Thursday." I hang up before his answer and slip my phone into my jean pocket. Excitement springs in my chest. I'll be leaving soon.   
  
  
  


**_Molly_ **

A loud impatient knocking beats at my front door. I pause the movie playing on my living room television and put my plate of uneaten food on my coffee table. I'm shocked to find a disheveled Sherlock standing in anxious wait on the other side of the door when I peak through the peephole.

I swing the door open, letting a wave of cold night air in. "Sherlock?"

He brushes past me and walks impatiently into my hall. "He's angry." He announces suddenly. I close the door behind me and take a breath.

"Who?"

"John. Obviously."

"Oh...uh-"

"He's being so...difficult," he adds, annoyed.

"So, you've spoken to him, then?" My voice sounds small. He looks at me as though I've asked a stupid question. "I mean, he knows everything?" I try to salvage the conversation.

He squints his eyes in frustration, "He wouldn't let me explain. He's being..sentimental- I don't know."

I lick my lips, "Maybe he just needs time, you know, he-"

"How much time?" Frustration carries his voice. "Doesn't he realize we have work to do?"

"Uh..." my back is against my door as he paces in the hall. Suddenly he stops and peers into my living room.

"Are you having a meal?"

"I was just watching-"

"Your food is cold." He steps into the room and I quietly follow, wondering how he would know. He stops and looks at me.

"You should eat."

I don't know what to say, I feel my brow crinkle.

He traces his way around my couch, "You haven't been, not properly."

"Sherlock-"

"What's the matter?"

I can't think of an answer before he starts again, "You're smaller." He eyes my waist, the way my shirt hangs around my sloped shoulders. His crystal eyes roll down my hips. My stomach flushes and I feel my skin boil.

He quickly turns on his heel, making me jump slightly, "Why isn't he happy?!"

"It's a bit of a shock," I explain, "you not being dead."

He thinks this over silently. Then slowly walks toward me, "Perhaps it is time I come out."

"Come out?" I try not to focus on his proximity to me.

"So the others may know I'm alive. Mycroft has warned me otherwise, and given Volkof's unusual capture, he may be right."

"Volkof?"

"Yes, Molly, keep up."

"It's just, you haven't really talked about the case- er, the snipers, I mean, or-" he brushes past me.

"I just need to break John's reserve. He's angry, but it'll pass." He looks to me for assurance.

"Right." I notice I'm playing with my fingers and I separate my hands, pulling them to my sides. His eyes dance around my body, then my living room again.

"I apologize for interrupting," he adds quietly.

"No- you didn't." The words rush out.

He watches me for a moment. Finally I speak, unwilling to suffer his intense gaze any longer, and wanting to drain the silence, "Do you think it's safe?"

"Of course not, but where's the fun if it isn't?" He produces one of his forced smiles, the one where his lips pull up but his eyes don't crinkle; the one I know is fake.

I return an airy laugh, not wanting him to leave, but also not wanting him to stay. Not like this. As quickly as he came in he's already opened the door to leave. I step quickly to the door, hoping to say goodbye, but he's already taken the steps down into the night and I don't feel the energy to call out after him, knowing silence will be the response.

I sigh and close the door. I'm especially not hungry now, although I don't know why. I pick up my plate and set it in my sink. For a moment I stand at the sink eyeing the food arranged nicely on the plate. Then I return to my living room and sink into my couch, not really watching the movie paused on screen.


End file.
